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HOW TO BE A 
SUCCESSFUL WRITER 


















































































































































































































































































* 
















































- 
































































































- 

































How 
To Be A 
Successful Writer 


By 

JAMES IRVING 

Author of “How to Sell Manuscripts With Ease,” 
“How New Writers Succeed ” “ The A B C of 
Successful Writing ” “The Ten Great 
Secrets of Successful Authorship,” 

Etc., Etc. 


THE AUTHORS’ PRESS 

AUBURN - NEW YORK 
1919 





THIS EDITION 
Copyright 1919 by 
THE AUTHORS’ PRESS 

Printed in the United States of America 
AH rights reserved, including that of translation 
into the Scandinavian. 



\ 


©CI.A5I2230 

FF.3 -3 i3i9 


Atrl I 





A Foreword 

By 

THE AUTHORS’ PRESS 

PUBLISHERS OF 
THIS BOOK 

T 



f OME folks have the absurd idea that only a genius endowed 
with God-given power can succeed as a writer. You should 
not tolerate this foolish notion for a minute. People are 
born with tendencies, not with talents. So, if you like to 
write, you are pretty sure to succeed—if you try hard enough. George 
Saintsbury, greatest critic of all time, says: “As a matter of fact there 
it not so very much genius in the world. In prose, especially, it is 
possible to gain a very high place, and to deserve it, without any 
genius at all.” 


Just tell yourself this: “It can be done—it has been done by count¬ 
less others, no different than I. All I must do is master the right 
principles and intelligently apply them.” 

True, there are rare freaks, so to speak, seemingly born to fame; 
but they are only the exceptions proving the rule. Ninety-nine of 
every hundred writers win by work. Success is not tendered them 
on a golden platter! 

To the average beginner, however, writing is a puzzle. When 
studying this lucrative art, he often becomes lost in a maze of techni¬ 
calities. Why? Simply because most books purporting to teach the 
art of writing seem to have had as their aim the confusion of the reader 
instead of the simplification of writing. 

Hence, the many unsuccessful beginners—the pathetically ambitious 
men and women writers, earnestly, faithfully, sincerely struggling to 
reach the Goal Triumphant, yet doomed to failure even before they 
start. And all along they might easily have succeeded—might easily 
have been writing and selling their work in a sensible manner. 

For there IS an easy way to write. There is nothing mysterious or 
complicated about it. Mr. Irving proves this in the following chap¬ 
ters. Here he gives you up-to-the-minute writing SIMPLIFIED 
and made easy for the average individual. His well-tested principles 
will greatly help you turn your ideas into dollars. 

Follow his simple system. Practice his plain methods. You will 
one day find it all so easy you’ll wonder how anyone COULD fail! 

Many beginners have found GOLD in the New Irving Method. 
Is there any good reason why you shouldn’t? 














CONTENTS 


Part I 

THE NEW IRVING METHOD 
OF WRITING SHORT STORIES 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Introduction . 11 

II Theme . 12 

III Point of View . 17 

IV Characters and Characterization . 20 

V Methods of Building the Plot.. 30 

VI Beginning and Ending . 36 

VII Dialogue . 44 

VIII Setting . 49 

IX Style . 53 

X Unities of Time, Place, and Action. 56 

XI Unity of Impression . 60 

XII How to Choose An Appropriate Title. 67 

XIII Mystery and Detective Stories. 71 

XIV Your Own Life In Your Writing . 75 

Part II 

THE NEW IRVING METHOD 
OF WRITING PHOTOPLAYS 

I The Photoplay Defined and Explained . 81 

II The Component Parts of a Photoplay. 83 

III The Photoplay Plot . 85 

IV The Synopsis . 102 

V The Cast of Characters . 105 

VI The Scene-Plot . 109 

VII The Continuity, or Scenario. 112 

VIII The Photoplay Title . 120 

IX The Photoplay Stage . 126 

X What to Write About . 128 

XI Things You Should Not Write About. 136 

XII Writing Comedy . 145 




























Part III 


\ 


A MODEL PHOTOPLAY 

I “The Countess Charming” . 150 

Part IV 

GLOSSARY OF WORDS AND PHRASES 
USED IN PHOTOPLAY WRITING 

I The Glossary . 187 

Part V 

THE EASY WAY TO CHOOSE YOUR OWN FIELD OF 
WRITING AND WORK SUCCESSFULLY 

I Introduction . 193 

II The Writer, His Methods, and His Equipment. 195 

III How to Choose Your Own Field of Writing. 201 

IV Why Manuscripts Are Rejected. 213 

V How Successful Writers Sell Their Manuscripts 215 

VI Meriting Success. 217 

VII Where to Sell Manuscripts. 219 










PART I 

THE NEW IRVING METHOD 
OF WRITING SHORT STORIES 







Chapter I 


INTRODUCTORY 

The prospective writer of short-story material has chosen the most 
delightful, instructive and commonly helpful field in the whole world 
of literary effort. Everyone loves to read short stories, and this 
keen delight in following the adventures, trials and tribulations of a 
favorite hero or heroine is only surpassed by the pleasure of the story 
writer himself in weaving his brain children for universal admiration 
and acclaim. For truly ’tis a deep and satisfying feeling to know that 
all over the world readers are following the words that you have 
written and reaping the benefits of your observations and moral 
teachings. 

Robert Louis Stevenson tells us that fiction has a bigger and more 
positive appeal than any other kind of writing, and this applies espe¬ 
cially to fiction’s shortest form—the short story. How wonderful and 
easy it is to bend the energies of the characters you create to some 
moral end, to use them as an instrument which will not only amuse 
and help another to spend profitably some idle hour, but will uncon¬ 
sciously, subtly, yet powerfully, enforce some far-reaching good upon 
the mind of the reader and make him a better man for the reading. 

There are many excellent definitions of the short story. The fol¬ 
lowing by Clayton Hamilton will be well to bear in mind. “The 
short story aims to produce a single narrative effect with the greatest 
economy of means that is consistent with the utmost emphasis.” 

Short stories may contain from one to seven thousand words. The 
most popular length with magazine editors, however, is the story of 
three or four thousand words. Stories of this length usually are read 
at one sitting, and it is largely in this short length of time required to 
assimilate the plot of the story that its effectiveness lies, because of the 
single and unified impression gained. The novel can be read only in 
a series of sittings or possibly at one sitting; unless the fabric of the 
novel, however, is very engaging, the reader is apt to tire toward the 
conclusion. The short story bears the same relation to the novel that 
the lyric bears to the epic poem, both the short forms being the more 
popular and effective. 

Everyone reads short stories; consequently, the young author will 
already have a more or less defined impression of the materials which 
go to make up a story, and the methods in which they are handled. 
After stdying the following detailed analysis of the short-story form, 
however, the aspiring writer will read stories with renewed zest and 
appreciation. 


Chapter II 


THEME 

The theme bears the same relation to the story that the foundation 
bears to the finished structure. It is the underlying idea, the causation 
of the story, the truth or moral on which the plot is based; it receives 
its vital spark of life from any one of innumerable meritorious phil¬ 
osophies of life, strange and suggestive experiences, odd characters, 
human passions and the like. The theme is that which the writer 
wishes to impress upon his reader, the central idea which he wishes to 
set forth as impressively and indicatively as possible. Having decided 
which phase of life he wishes to portray in his story, it will be wise 
for the prospective author to decide exactly just what type of story 
he is about to write:—stories are based on character, setting, incident, 
emotion and idea. 

Stories Based On Character .—All stories have characters of some 
sort in various numbers. Some writers will wish to base their stories 
on the study of some odd character with whom they are intimately 
acquainted, and whose passions and peculiarities, in reaction with the 
other characters of the story and the circumstances in which the themic 
character is placed, they feel will prove entertaining and worthy of 
portrayal. All stories in which characterization or the conflicts of 
various emotions predominate, are stories of character. A story in 
which a son, by force of circumstances must choose between the love 
of his mother and the respect and worship of his father, set off by 
situations necessary to give the story suspense, is a story of character. 
The study in a story based on such a theme would be a study of the 
son. Many of Victor Hugo’s writings are based on character. In 
one of his writings, the center of the stage in held by a man who 
struggles tempestuously with the elements. Edgar Allen Poe’s story, 
“The Coward,” is one of character. The story’s movement brings 
out potently the latent cowardice of the main character, who, at the 
beginning of the action, is dashing and confident, but at the climax, 
has so lost his composure as to fall an easy, but tragic, victim to an 
opponent’s bullet. 

Stories Based On Incidents .—After character comes incident. 
Characters must act, must engage in enterprises, the more interesting 
and harrowing the better. Stories of incident are ordinarily stories 
of adventure; productions in which thrilling, exciting, ever-rushing 
action is featured above all else. In stories of this description, the 
characters are subordinate; we demand only that the hero be brave 
and crafty, the heroine pretty and lovable. Au<J, though they usually 
conflict with various other characters in the story of incident, we are 
not so much interested in the influence event, emotion and circum¬ 
stance have on a man’s or woman’s nature, as we are in the manner in 
which they will extricate themselves from some pressing danger. The 
themes on which stories of adventure are based are many and varied. 


Theme 


13 


Examples are: “Arabian Nights,” “Robinson Crusoe,” Merrimee’s 
“Taking of the Redoubt,” together with Scott’s, Dumas’, and a num¬ 
ber of Stevenson’s writings, “Treasure Island,” for instance. In all 
of these productions, we think not largely of the characters who carry 
along the action, but of the strange, enthralling mazes in which they 
become involved. 

Stories Based On Setting .—Next come stories of setting, in which 
the greatest emphasis is placed upon the background, the tone, the 
time, the place, or the conditions of the story. Thus, I might desire 
to write a story in which some phase of nature—the sea or the fore¬ 
boding mountains—has an overwhelming effect upon a man’s life; 
or, again, I might know of some strange and gruesome building on 
which I could base a story of the supernatural, as Poe did in “The Fall 
of the House of Usher.” The pervading mysterious atmosphere of a 
certain house gave Poe his theme. His next problem was to build 
up incidents occurring in or near the house to bear out the original 
theme of the supernatural. 

Characters will be ordinarily actuated according to the conditions 
in which they are placed, or the localities in which they are set. If 
I am put in a healthful, beautiful and sunny land of flowers and 
singing birds, I am quite likely to be optimistic and to react differently 
than if I am placed in the New York tenement district. The compli¬ 
cations of setting are limitless. 

Stories Based On Emotion .—Next in order comes the story of emo¬ 
tion, that based on some great inner feeling, such as love, fear, hate, 
duty, or faith. Thus, with some stories love predominates; or we may 
have a production based upon a soldier’s duty to his country; upon a 
jealous husband or a lover. Any story based upon any one of these 
emotions and in which character, incident and setting are subordinate 
to the emotion aroused in the heart of the reader, is a true story of 
emotion. Bulwer Lytton, in his story “The House and the Brain,” 
evidently had in mind the production of the emotions of fear and 
horror, as had Poe in many of his stories of the supernatural. 

Stories Based On Ideas .—Final in this category of stories comes 
the story of idea, the result, ordinarily, of the author’s philosophies of 
life. One and all of us during certain periods of life experience 
certain injustices, observe inharmonies of human nature, and odd 
happenings among people, which, if set off in the texture of a story, 
might prove efficacious to man. The writer might have seen examples 
in which a shabbily dressed, but deserving and talented, young man or 
woman was received with less respect than another individual, the 
latter more prosperously placed but having less true culture. The 
possibilities of stories of this character are without end; they include 
all ideas of life and may be either humorous or tragic. An excellent 
story of idea is Edward Everett Hale’s “The Man Without A 
Country.” Hale’s intention in this story was to bring clearly and pow¬ 
erfully to the reader’s mind, lest he forget, just what his country means 
to him. 

The greatest themes are those which are based on the innermost 
elements of human life, those which might appeal to an Eskimo in 
the far North and which might touch a responsive chord in the breast 


14 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


of a swarthy Arab; for it is stories based on elemental themes, such 
as fear or love, that will live longest. For from the earliest epochs 
man has experienced fear and love, and doubtless always will. 

How And Where To Secure Your Themes. 

Now that the prospective author understands what theme is, and 
the type of stories which he may write, he may next ask, How am I 
to think of a theme? There are a number of ways in which his 
thoughts may be assisted; he may secure his inspiration from his 
everyday life; he may be working side by side with some ambitious 
young man who is looking ahead but who is shackled down because 
forced to support an aged mother or an invalid sister, yet who is really 
determined to grasp a fulfillment of his ideal, though it may mean the 
draining of his life’s last blood. Or, again, the young author may 
look down into his own heart and analyze the fibre of his own nature. 
If he is broad-minded and far-sighted, he will see much therein to 
write of. 

Another prolific source of themes is that of reading books, of secur¬ 
ing ideas from other writers. Ofttimes one may be reading stories 
and it may suddenly come to one that such and such a character if 
placed under different and appropriate conditions might react in a 
very entertaining and surprising manner. Most themes permit of a 
multitude of developments, according to the mind that accepts them 
for use. 

Regarding the inspiration given by the reading of books, Robert 
Louis Stevenson says in his article, “Books Which Have Influenced 
Me”: “A book which has been very influential upon me fell early into 
my hands, and so may stand first, though I think its influence was only 
sensible later on, and perhaps still keeps growing, for it is a book not 
easily outlived; the Essais of Montaigne. That temperate and genial 
picture of life is a great gift to place in the hands of persons of to-day; 
they will find in these smiling pages a magazine of heroism and wis¬ 
dom, all of an antique strain; they will have their ‘linen decencies’ 
and excited orthodoxies fluttered, and will (if they have any gift of 
reading) perceive that these have not been fluttered without some 
excuse and ground of reason; and (again if they have any gift of 
reading) they will end by seeing that this old gentleman was in a 
dozen ways a finer fellow, and held in a dozen ways a nobler view 
of life, than they or their contemporaries.” 

The wise writer allows the world to be his sphere of observation; 
allows the world, and every part and particle of the world, every 
object of nature, every bit of news, every suggestive happening, no 
matter to whom or in what manner it occurs, prove grain to his grist. 
As Hamilton W. Mabee narrates: “He fed himself with any kind 
of knowledge which was at hand; if books were at his elbow, he read 
them; if pictures and engravings, he studied them; if nature was 
within walking distance, he watched nature; if men were about him 
he learned the secrets of their skills; if he were on shipboard he knew 
the dialect of the vessel in the briefest possible time; if he traveled 
by stage he sat by the driver and learned all about the road, the 
country, the people, and the art of his companion; if he had a spare 


Theme 


15 


hour in a village in which there was a manufactory, he went through 
it with a keen eye, and learned the methods used in it.” 

Themes To Be Barred. 

Unless he is very careful indeed, the young author in choosing his 
theme, may decide on one which has been the foundation of innumer¬ 
able other stories he has read. Everything we read, everything we 
hear or see, is placed firmly in our mind at all times, though we may 
not be able consciously to bring each mental record to instant recollec¬ 
tion. Nevertheless, it still persists; hence, if we choose an old and 
hackneyed theme for elaboration, we may be apt to work it out on the 
lines other stories, with themes similar or identical to the one we have 
chosen, have been worked out. It will all be without intention, but 
the danger is there nevertheless. Thus, in choosing an oft-utilized 
theme, the writer must be doubly cautious in working out his plot. 

For instance, there might come to me the theme of the young child 
proving a means of reconciliation between father and mother at odds. 
Now, literally hundreds of stories have been based on this theme, 
and, unless I can devise some new method of bringing the child in 
contact with the father and mother, some new method by which they 
are brought to see the error of their quarrel, my story will misfire, 
will not be a new story at all. The young writer, like the sentinel on 
duty, must constantly be on the guard that he does not allow old, 
worn-out themes to lull to sleep his caution and to possess him too 
strongly. This, of course, does not apply so strongly to the elemental 
themes, dealing, for instance, with the faith of woman to her husband, 
or the blind love of a mother for her child. Such themes are too 
broad and possible of unlimited development to admit of a great 
amount of danger. It is especially themes based on ideas or incidents 
with which we must be careful. Thus, if the author desires to write 
a story concerning the adventures of two brothers in war time, one 
championing one side, the other the opposite, it will be encumbent 
upon him to differentiate his story from those others of a like theme. 

Next in order come improper themes, themes dealing too strongly 
of sex, or insincerely and too suggestively, together with morbid and 
depressing stories. This does not mean, of course, that every story 
based on sex and some of its intimate relations, is undesirable; it 
signifies only that the writer must be clean of mind when writing a 
production of this character, and must have noble sentiments in 
mind; for every story must inevitably bear the texture of the writer’s 
very soul; all evil in him will be portrayed in the story. Many 
of the French novelists and short-story writers deal with sex questions 
and sex relations in a very daring manner, but their manner of treat¬ 
ment merely is analytical and serves as an illuminating illustration 
of the theme. 

The magazines of the country, too, are aiming more and more 
toward the ideal and the optimistic, consequently it will be to the 
advantage of the writer to avoid the sensational, the morbid and the 
depressive. The writer should not base his stories, as did De Mau¬ 
passant in “The Piece of String,” on too merciless logic or on the 
grinding decrees of fate and cruel nature. 


16 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


If he must write stories of action, let there be not a superabundance 
of murders, suicides, broken hearts, ruined homes, tortured heroes, 
and the like. Use propriety and proportion at all times, and let this 
emotion or that emotion, if stressed rather strongly, be offset by its 
contrasting emotion. If it is desired to write stories dealing with the 
supernatural or mysterious, the writer must be sure not to descend to 
the shocking and repulsive, as does Poe in a few instances. Your story 
might not possess the sharp tone of reality that Poe was able to impart 
to his. Unless told by a skilled hand, such a story might degenerate 
into the senselessly horrible. 

The themes barred are those that offend good taste, and it certainly 
would be beyond the pale of good taste to argue with a neighbor over 
his religious beliefs, or to poke fun at another because of his race, his 
creed or his opinions. Moderation in everything should be the motto 
to shackle enthusiasm. 


Chapter III 


POINT OF VIEW 
The Purpose of Point of View. 

The reader comes to you, the author, in the capacity of an entire 
stranger. From the moment of the introduction, he gladly relinquishes 
all conscious hold on his practical every-day world. He is determined 
to incorporate himself into the soul and being of your hero, to think 
that He is this hero; hence, has all the right in the world to sorrow or 
fight with him. The purpose, then, of point of view is to arouse the 
reader to the pleasurable belief that he is seeing, at first hand, startling 
and revealing incidents. 

What is Point of Viewf 

Point of view is the telling of a story from some previously de¬ 
termined vantage point. It is an essential convention of the art of 
short-story writing. If it were not necessary to have point of view 
in a story, when produced, it would be hopelessly confused and would 
deteriorate merely into a babel of tongues. The story would resemble 
greatly a room full of people, all talking at the same time. The story 
would contain no suspense, no thrilling conjectures as to the manner 
in which the hero might extricate himself from harrowing situations, 
because it would already be explained by a triple or quadruple point of 
view just what the characters would do, because they themselves 
would reveal their motives and intentions. 

The mechanism of telling a story is divided into three methods: 
first, the point of view of the main participant; the omniscient point of 
view; and the objective, impartial or third-person point of view. All 
stories told in the first person have the point of view of the main 
participant. Examples of stories told in this point of view are 
“Robinson Crusoe” and a number of Poe’s short stories such as the 
“Black Cat” and “Ligeia.” This method of telling a story is extremely 
effective because of the inevitable tone of sincerity coming from the 
use of the personal pronoun. We seem to read of the personal experi¬ 
ence of some character who is setting his experience down just as it 
occurred. This method also has its defects. If the adventures 
through which the hero is hurled, draw too greatly upon his personal 
energy and resourcefulness; if he is made a shining example of the 
rising of man to emergency, and this all is told in the first person, the 
story is very apt to carry the effect of egotism. Moreover, in stories 
that contain stirring action transpiring at widely separated points, 
the hero must be rather superhuman and veritably possess seven- 
league boots to cover the great distance and participate in all the 
actions. He must be there or he cannot tell what occurs. Customarily, 
however, these difficulties are circumscribed by the means of letters, 
messengers, and so forth. 

Point of View of One of the Observers of the Story. 

This is the point of view customarily employed in detective stories. 
Conan Doyle makes an extensive use of this method, Dr. Watson 


18 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


serving as the observer of all the main action. It is essential that the 
observer be largely a recorder of what happens and not too greatly a 
direct participant in the action. If he is the latter, the attention of 
the reader is very apt to be diverted to the part the observer plays in 
the story. 

The Omniscient Point of View. 

In this point of view the writer supervises and analyzes the actions, 
motives and thoughts of his main characters and brings one or more of 
them, complete in all details of heart and soul, to the attention of the 
reader. He knows all, he sees all, and he experiences many things 
which can be known only by some one who can penetrate into the 
utmost recesses of a person’s heart and mind. This point of view is in 
use largely in stories of analysis, such as George Eliot’s “Romola,” in 
which lengthy tale she sketches the deterioration of the main char¬ 
acter Tito Melema. It is this point of view that is used so largely in 
stories of character. To understand a character very thoroughly, we 
must know much of his motives, for it would be next to impossible 
to know what a character thinks and feels and how he reacts under 
certain conditions without having the power of omniscience; and if 
an author has this power, the reader profits thereby. The omniscient 
point of view, however, is seldom used in the modern short stories 
because ordinarily it consumes too great space in the telling. The 
reader must not be too greatly concerned with the motives, the 
thoughts, and each phase of the feelings of several characters; the 
action must go on, the crisis must be met and done with. We cannot 
linger too long on traits of character as are dealt with at length in 
novels. 

The Objective, the Impartial , or Third Person Point of View. 

This is the method now in use by present-day short-story writers. 
It admits of a swift development of the story plot. This point of view 
is often called the author-observant point of view. In such a point 
of view the short story bears a striking resemblance to the drama. In 
the drama the characters merely act and speak. No one stands back 
of the scenes or on the stage to analyze the motives which actuate the 
actors in accomplishing certain things. The character must interpret 
his own emotion without any outside influence except that coming from 
expression of the lineaments, the movements of the hands, and the 
inflection of the voice, and so forth, together with the settings of the 
stage. The point of view of the author-observant is exactly similar to 
that of the audience of a drama. The author is a mere recorder of 
events. He stands to one side and gives to us the action of the person¬ 
ages of his story, just as they occur. We must interpret from the char¬ 
acters’ speeches and actions just what kind of people they are. 

This method is unusually effective because it admits of a speedy 
unraveling of the plot. The reader can become greatly interested in 
the life of the action because the author is so far removed from the 
reader's thoughts and does not intrude himself upon the reader’s 
reflection. The characters of the story have it all their own way; the 
author is merely the stenographer who takes down the characters’ 
speeches and movements. 




Point of View 


19 


Combination of Points of View. 

A story need not be entirely told from the omniscient point of view 
or from that of the author-observant. A combination of either of 
these elements of story telling may be used. In telling a story I may 
be omniscient in a restricted sense. I may delve deeply into the char¬ 
acteristics and the motives of one character and leave the motives of 
the other characters to the interpretation of the reader. This is an 
excellent method because it allows the reader to use his own imagina¬ 
tion on the other characters and thereby heightens the suspense. In 
stories of the author-observant type, it may be well for the writer to 
introduce comments on life, on his characters, at opportune moments 
during the development of his story. We will give as an example 
of the author-observant type of story, interspersed with comments, a 
portion of O. Henry’s “The Trimmed Lamp.” 

Suffused in the aura of this high social refinement and 
good breeding, it was impossible for her to escape a deeper 
effect of it. As good habits are said to be better than good 
principles, so, perhaps, good manners are better than good 
habits. The teachings of your parents may not keep alive 
your New England conscience; but if you sit in a straight- 
back chair and repeat the words “prisms and pilgrims” forty 
times the devil will flee from you. And when Nancy spoke 
in the Van Alstyne Fisher tones she felt the thrill of noblesse 
oblige to her very bones. 

There was another source of learning in the great depart¬ 
mental school. Whenever you see three or four shop-girls 
gather in a bunch and jingle their wire bracelets as an accom¬ 
paniment to apparently frivolous conversation, do not think 
that they are there for the purpose of criticising the way Ethel 
does her back hair. The meeting may lack the dignity of 
the deliberative bodies of man; but it has all the importance 
of the occasion on which Eve and her first daughter first put 
their heads together to make Adam understand his proper 
place in the household. It is Woman’s Conference for Com¬ 
mon Defense and Exchange of Strategical Theories of Attack 
and Repulse upon and against the World, which is a Stage, 
and Man, its Audience who Persists in Throwing Bouquets 
Thereupon. Woman, the most helpless of the young of any 
animal—with the fawn’s grace but without its fleetness; 
with the bird’s beauty but without its power of flight; with 
the honey-bee’s burden of sweetness but without its—Oh, 
let’s drop that simile—some of us may have been stung. 

The Center of Interest. 

Before deciding upon the point of view, it will be well for the 
writer to determine definitely with just what characters or character 
he has to deal with sympathetically, for one half of the charm of the 
story lies in the fact that it has a center of interest, meaning that one 
of the characters, or one set of characters, holds the center of the 
stage and is constantly in prominence. A story to be perfect must 
have a center of interest, just as a wheel must have an axle. 





Chapter IV 


CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERIZATION 
Characters Must Be Interesting. 

Most people read for amusement and entertainment, not purely 
for instruction. It will be well for the young writer to bear this fact 
constantly in mind in planning who his characters will be and what 
they will do. What they will be will depend largely on whether his 
story is to be one of action, of emotion, of setting, of idea, or of char¬ 
acter. If of action, his characters themselves will be merely the 
puppets to carry along the action of the plot; while, on the other 
hand, if his production is to be one of character, the actors will be 
chiefly concerned in being, in developing, in displaying character. 

Rut, whether the characters are merely the means to an end, or the 
end in itself, the writer must be sure that his characters are interesting. 
We admire and like to be in the company of interesting people in our 
every-day life, especially in view of the fact that most people are 
ordinary and usually lack any marks of distinction. People, as a rule, 
do not exert themselves or go out of their way to be entertaining and 
amusing to others. Consequently, it is the attraction of his actors, his 
people, who further his, story, that the author will urge as a reason 
for having his story read. So the writer MUST exert himself to 
make his characters very interesting. They must continue to act 
without tiring, without boring, and must continue at all times to dis¬ 
play new tendencies of major interest, or unique tendencies of well- 
known characteristics. If the writer fails to do this, if he is unable to 
make his characters much more worthy of our time and attention than 
ordinary people, then his story will be a failure. 

If a person were taken from life and his actions reproduced just 
as they occurred, the narrative would be very tiring indeed. Only at 
very long intervals would the character engage in such enterprises, or 
experience an upheaval of his orthodoxies, sufficient to hold a reader’s 
attention. Things of interest happen to the average individual only 
at wide and isolated intervals. In the successful story, characters must 
be planned in such a manner that they are constantly changing, or 
progressing, being acted upon by other characters or involved in cir¬ 
cumstances and conditions that make the story. A story character 
must crowd into a few pages what usually occurs to an individual 
of every-day life in several years. Characters in stories experience a 
very intensive and concentrated existence. In order that the theme 
of the story may be presented in the briefest and most effective manner 
possible, the characters must constantly be “in the soup,” to speak in 
the vernacular, until all is over and the action has been drawn to a 
satisfactory end. 

Characters Must Be Of Universal Appeal. 

To many writers will come the desire to portray certain characters 
of interest to some, yet not all people. One writer may desire to 


Characters and Characterization 


21 


write stories of interest only to women, or to men, or the constituents 
of a particular trade or locality. The magazines, consciously or un¬ 
consciously, greatly encourage this tendency. For instance, one maga¬ 
zine will request that all stories submitted be of the “society type with 
a denouement of such a hidden and suggestive unravelment that the 
reader will think its truth has been revealed to him alone and that he 
has been very clever in discerning it.” Or another publication will 
want a type of stories dealing with the life of the woman on the 
farm; another periodical will want war stories; another adventure 
stories, and so on. If the writer has a predilection for writing certain 
types of stories and his characters are of a limited appeal, he will find 
numerous markets for his work. But his field will not be a fraction as 
broad or as appealing as that of the writer who treats of characters 
all of us can understand, imagine and appreciate. The thinking writer 
will allow his character to exploit elemental themes and emotions; 
if he does and his story has an American setting, then it will be read 
and enjoyed by all Americans everywhere. 

Characters Should Be Typical Of Certain Traits. 

The human soul is made up of a great number of abstract, moral 
and immoral qualities, such as, ambition, bigotry, love, selfishness, 
courage and faith. Each character of a story ordinarily embodies 
one of these abstract traits and is a type thereof. In one story the 
heroine will be the embodiment of faith in her lover, no matter how 
badly that faith be shaken. Her forte, her reason for being the story, 
is that she is faithful. It would not suffice that she be casually 
faithful, or that it be an effort for her to be faithful, or that it caused 
any urging on the part of some other to show to her that it would be 
best in the end to be faithful. Each character must possess certain 
traits and tendencies when he enters the action; he must still possess 
those same exaggerated and continuous traits when he leaves. He 
must be the concentrated essence of courage, of perseverance, of fear, 
or of hate come to life. He must live up to the part laid out for him 
in the story, and there must be no wavering, no doubt as to the part 
he is to play. 

Great characters, Whitman observes, “contain multitudes.” That 
is, the man of courage must be the sum entire of all courage, in all 
men everywhere. We must see clearly in his action just what he 
knows and understands fear to be. Becky Sharpe, in Thackeray’s 
“Vanity Fair,” typifies all scheming women; and restless, grasping, 
unsatisfied peasants are typified in Pakhom, main character of Tol¬ 
stoi’s, “Three Arshins of Land.” Now, though doubtless there are 
legions of women who scheme to bring about certain things during 
their life and to whom their own welfare is omnipresent and all¬ 
pressing, nevertheless there are no women in actual life who consist¬ 
ently and constantly could reveal the traits of craftiness and scheming 
so typified in the interesting Becky. 

Very few people are typical in the above sense, for the reason that 
their tendencies along certain lines, such as love for admiration and 
fame, do not contain near all the qualities, in the aggregate, of a certain 
type. A man may be strong-willed, may evince it in various and un~ 





22 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


mistakable ways, but his strong-willedness is not near equal in magni¬ 
tude, or variety, or consistency, to the tendencies and accomplishments 
displayed by all other men combined who possess this trait. 

It is this display of typical traits by a story’s characters that make 
it and them interesting. You or I may not be especially concerned in 
the love affair of some young High School chap of our acquaintance. 
But we are interested hugely in the manifestations of love taken as a 
whole, manifested in the person of some character evincing in the 
aggregate all its qualities or the potencies of its qualities. And so it 
is with all traits. We may not be attracted to special or trivial por¬ 
trayal of types of emotion or character; but, when some particular 
trait is summed up in all its force and magnitude in the compass of one 
person, then we ARE interested in its disclosure, because all of us, 
at some time or other during our lives, have experienced the power 
of nearly all elemental emotions. We are so constituted, like an intri¬ 
cate piece of machinery of a great many parts, that we all have many 
traits instead of one. 

But characters, to draw attention, must possess more than unity and 
prominence of trait. They must, above all, be individual, so that, 
even after having read the story, we may remember them as very 
entertaining personages whom we shall keep on our list of friends for 
all time. The ways to individualize a character are manifold. Think 
of several people of your own personal acquaintance, then decide just 
what qualities they possess, what peculiarities and habits they display, 
by which you especially remember and distinguish them from other 
people. Each of us do certain things, have certain mannerisms of 
dress and speech, which characteristics serve as marks of identification 
by our friends and acquaintances. It is these distinguishing qualities— 
a lisp of speech, a manner of walking, an exclamation we constantly 
are repeating, a habit we constantly are rehearsing in the presence of 
others—which make certain characters distinguishable from the other 
people of the story. 

The writer does not need to load his characters down with indi¬ 
vidualities; they can be made too individual, and, in making doubly 
sure that each character will be remembered and easily identified, the 
writer can cause the reader to forget the story itself. Nor is it neces¬ 
sary to precede the entrance of each character in the story by a long 
description of his every detail of dress, habit and countenance. Such 
a tendency is wasteful, for it is by the few prominent oddities of their 
peculiar natures that we remember characters. Consequently, it will 
be encumbent upon the author to choose only those few details of a 
character that will fix his identity firmly in the mind. The following 
bit of description is very brief, but it is sufficiently pertinent and unique 
to impress an image of the Colonel firmly upon our minds. 

“Colonel Marigold was a rosy cherub with a white chinwhisker. 
He carried his sixty years with a slight soldierly limp, and was forever 
opening his china-blue eyes in mild astonishment.” 

Direct Portrayal Of Character. 

Characters are pictured to the reader by two methods, the direct 
and the indirect. By direct delineation, we mean exposition, descrip¬ 
tion, and announcements of certain characters by other characters. 


Characters and Characterization 


23 


By indirect delineation, we designate the methods of portrayal by the 
character himself in significant speech; by one character’s effect upon 
another, and, lastly, by the action of a character. We will now take 
up the method of exposition, the first in the direct method of delinea¬ 
tion. In this, the character’s most interesting traits are sketched by the 
author. We secure an excellent outline of the character, but this 
system lacks somewhat in effectiveness for the reason that the char¬ 
acter is not life-like and does not seem to have been properly introduced. 
The following example of the expository method is from Stevenson’s 
“New Arabian Nights.” 

“Mr. Silas Q. Scuddmore was a young American of a simple and 
harmless disposition, which was the more to his credit as he came from 
New England—a quarter of the New World not precisely famous 
for those qualities. Although he was exceedingly rich, he kept a note 
of all his expenses in a little paper pocket-book; and he had chosen 
to study the attractions of Paris from the seventh story of what is 
called a furnished hotel, in the Latin Quarter. There was a great 
deal of habit in his penuriousness; and his virtue, which was very 
remarkable among his associates, was principally founded upon dif¬ 
fidence and youth.” 

Next in order is the method of description, in which the character’s 
physical plan is sketched as briefly and colorfully as possible. As has 
already been said, a judicious selection of outstanding details should 
be chosen and sketched. Nor need all the characters be described in 
more than a word or two, though it is usual to have a number of 
identification marks for the main characters. Occasionally, however, 
a character is of such importance, and the physical side may have such 
a bearing on the interest and development of the story, that a full 
and more detailed description may be found necessary. But, ordi¬ 
narily, characters may best be described in bits and sections, as certain 
actions in which they become involved bring to view their tendencies 
and oddities. By this latter method, the reader is not taken for too 
long a time from the scene of interest. Following is a bit of descrip¬ 
tion from London’s “Samuel,” a story of character: 

The sunken cheecks and pinched nose told little of the 
quality of the life that flickered behind those clear blue eyes 
of hers. Despite the minutiae of wrinkle-work that somehow 
failed to weazen them, her eyes were as clear as a girl’s— 
clear, out-looking and far-seeing, and with an open and un¬ 
blinking steadfastness of gaze that was disconcerting. The 
remarkable thing was the distance between them. It is a 
lucky man or woman who has the width of an eye between, 
but with Margaret Henan the width between the eyes was 
fully that of an eye and a half. Yet so symmetrically molded 
was her face that this remarkable feature produced no un¬ 
canny effect, and, for that matter, would have escaped the 
casual observer’s notice. The mouth, shapeless and tooth¬ 
less, with down-turned corners and lips dry and parchment¬ 
like, nevertheless lacked the muscular slackness so usual with 
age. The lips might have been those of a mummy, save for 
the impression of rigid firmness they gave. Not that they 


24 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


were atrophied. On the contrary they seemed tense and set 
with a muscular and spiritual determination. There and in 
the eyes was the secret of the certitude with which she carried 
the sacks up the steep steps, with never a false step or over¬ 
balance, and emptied them in the grain-bin. 

A still more effective means of describing characters is to put their 
qualities in the mouths of other characters, who may be discussing 
the talents or singularities of the first. This manner of displaying 
character is unusually forceful; the author is temporarily in the back¬ 
ground and the characters themselves, while discussing the faults or 
abilities of another, may unconsciously bring to light their own per¬ 
sonal attributes. Following is an extract from Jane Austen’s “Sense 
and Sensibility”: 

“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than 
the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor 
half so good-humored as Lydia. But you are always giving her the 
preference.” 

“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he: 
“They are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has some¬ 
thing more of quickness than her sisters.” 

Indirect Delineation of Character. 

By Speech and Its Implication .—In moments of stress and emotion, 
minor or major in importance, people are rather apt to speak before 
they think, and from this tendency of human nature we have the 
warning, “If angry, count ten before you speak.” But, if everyone 
counted ten before they spoke, we might have difficulty in discovering 
just what people thought of each other and things in general, for it is 
in moments of anger, or during other strong emotions, that a character 
is roused sufficiently to speak his mind, to give the key of his feelings, 
without restraint and without care. In such moments, the things 
characters say come directly from the heart without reserve: words 
which may have been treasured for years, which have hitherto been 
sternly suppressed, now that they are given freedom, rush forth 
tempestuously and lead rapidly to a crisis. 

We learn also from the word grouping itself the manner of a 
character’s feeling. If his emotion be that of anger, he will chop his 
sentences off quickly, not pausing to mince around for suitable 
phrases; while, on the other hand, if his feeling is that of hatred, most 
likely he will speak deliberately, slowly, clearly, and with dynamic 
emphasis. The following passage from Stevenson’s “Markheim” is 
a conversation in which character is strongly brought out, both by the 
speeches themselves and the manner of speaking: 

“Yes,” said the dealer, “our windfalls are of various kinds. 
Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend 
on my superior knowledge. Some are dishonest,” and here 
he held up his candle, so that the light fell strongly on his 
visitor, “and in that case,” he continued, “I profit by my 
virtue.” 

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, 
and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled 


Characters and Characterization 


25 


shine and darkness of the shop. At these pointed words, and 
before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully 
and looked aside. 

The dealer chuckled. “You come to me on Christmas 
day,” he resumed, when you know that I am alone in my 
house, put up my shutters, and make a point of refusing busi¬ 
ness. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to 
pay for my loss time, when I should be balancing friy books; 
you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I 
remark in you today very strongly. I am the essence of dis¬ 
cretion, and I ask no awkward questions; but when a cus¬ 
tomer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it.” The 
dealer once more chuckled; and then changing to his usual 
business voice, though still with a note of irony, “You can 
give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into the pos¬ 
session of the object?” he continued. “Still your uncle’s 
cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!” 

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost 
on tiptoe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and 
nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim 
returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of 
horror. 

“This time,” said he, “you are in error. I have not come 
to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle’s 
cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even were it still intact, I 
have done well on the Stock Exchange, and should more 
likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand today is sim¬ 
plicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady,” he con¬ 
tinued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he 
had prepared; “and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus 
disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing was 
neglected yesterday; I must produce my little compliment at 
dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich marriage is not a 
thing to be neglected.” 

There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed 
to weigh this statement incredulously. The ticking of 
many clocks among the curious lumber of the shop, and the 
faint rushing of the cabs in a near thoroughfare, filled up the 
interval of silence. 

“Well, sir,” said the dealer, “be it so. You are an old 
customer after all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of 
a good marriage, far be it from me to be an obstacle. Here 
is a nice thing for a lady now,” he went on, “this handglass— 
fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a good collection, 
too; but I reserve the name, in the interests of my customer, 
who was, just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole 
heir of a remarkable collector.” 

The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting 
voice, had stooped to take the object from its place; and as 
he had done so, a shock had passed through Markheim, a 
start both of hand and foot, a sudden leap of many tumultu- 


26 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


ous passions to the face. It passed as swiftly as it came, and 
left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that 
now received the glass. 

“A glass,” he said hoarsely, and then paused and repeated 
it more clearly. “A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?” 

“And why not?” cried the dealer. “Why not a glass?” 

Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable ex¬ 
pression. “You ask me why not?” he said. “Why, look here 
—look in it—look at it yourself! Do you like to see it? 
No! nor I—nor any man.” 

The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so 
suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but, now perceiving 
there was nothing worse on hand, he chuckled. “Your future 
lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored,” said he. 

“I ask you,” said Marheim, “for a Christmas present, and 
you give me this damned reminder of years, and sins and 
follies—this hand-conscience! Did you mean it? Had you 
a thought in your mind ? Tell me. It will be better for you 
if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I hazard a guess 
now, that in secret you are a very charitable man ?” 

“What are you driving at?” the dealer asked. 

“Not charitable?” returned the other gloomily. “Not 
charitable; not pious; nor scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; 
a hand to get money, a safe to keep it. Is that all? Dear 
God, man, is that all?” 

Throughout all this conversation, Markheim’s words are replete 
with a certain significance of meaning. Their meaning can be better 
understood when it is known that Markheim is a rogue who has 
several times previous disposed of stolen goods to the dealer. The 
expression of his face when he speaks of his errand marks him as telling 
a falsehood. His horror, too, when the dealer presents the glass, dis¬ 
plays plainly that he has come on no pleasing errand; very plainly 
he sees in the mirror the picture of an intended crime. The mirror 
pricks his conscience and his words imply plainly his conflict of soul. 
Still further on, his endeavors to find some good qualities in the 
dealer by eagerly asking if he is pious or charitable, disclose that he is 
desperately striving to put off the execution of some horrible act. 

Indirect Delineation by Action .—It is a truth universally accepted 
that action speaks far stronger than words. What a person does is 
what he thinks, for our muscles first must have the authority of our 
will; before they can move in the execution of some scheme hours or 
days of planning are required for its successful consummation. 

The action of the characters, then, may be very suggestive of their 
worth and thought, particularly those actions done in secret and under 
stress of emotion. 

Delineation by Effect on other Characters. —Again, we may know 
characters by their effect on some other person or persons. I may have 
met, during my travels, some remarkable man who has left a decided 
imprint and impression upon me. I may tell other people of the effect 
this individual had on me: I may defend him in an argument in which 
he is involved, or I may speak of his force of character, showing con- 


Characters and Characterization 


27 


sciously or otherwise, how it left its power fixed upon me. The piece 
following, from Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness,” will illustrate aptly: 

“ ‘You don’t know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,’ 
cried Kurtz’s last disciple. 

“ ‘Well, and you?’ I said. 

“ ‘I! I! I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. 
I want nothing from anybody. How can you compare me 


“His feelings were too much for speech, and suddenly he 
broke down. 

“ ‘I don’t understand,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve been doing my 
best to keep him alive, and that’s enough. I had no hand in 
all this. I have no abilities. There hasn’t been a drop of 
medicine or a mouthful of invalid food for months here. He 
was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas. 
Shamefully! Shamefully! I—I—haven’t slept for the last 
ten nights.’ ” 

Sympathetic Treatment of Characters .—Just as the writer must tell 
of those phases of life with which he is most acquainted, and just as 
he deals with those emotions and scenes which are nearest to his fancy, 
so must his characters carry out unmistakably his philosophy of char¬ 
acter as he sees it. If the writer is an admirer of some particular trait 
of human character, then one of his chief characters should embody 
that trait, for then the character will enthusiastically carry out the 
ideas sincerely and well. Otherwise, the character will not be true 
to the part set aside for him; his actions will fall flat because they will 
not seem to come directly from the heart, and nothing he says or does 
will ring true. It is important, therefore, that the writer use only 
those characters who will carry out his own sympathetic ideas along 
certain lines. If a writer set down a story when in a state of mind 
evil or revengeful to his friends and all the world, then his villain 
is very apt to appear in a relatively good light; for the writer will be 
in sympathy with him and will sketch the heroine or hero rather in¬ 
differently or even sarcastically; or the writer may even make a hero, 
all unconsciously, of course, out of his very villain. 

Where To Obtain Characters. 

There should be no difficulty in securing characters suitable for any 
and all emergencies. We need never be perplexed as to just how a 
character should conduct himself under certain conditions, for we have 
merely to place ourselves in his place and ask just how WE would act 
if situated likewise. Of course, characters may be secured by observ¬ 
ation of one’s friends, acquaintances, and the types one meets on the 
street, yet such observation serves merely as a point from which to 
start. Many very interesting characters there are in every locality, 
but the points of interest in any particular character can be only the 
suggestion for a story character; as has already been said, no person 
could be taken bodily from real life and put down into the fabric of a 
story simply because people are only casually representative of types. 

But people, taken as a whole, have the same traits, experience the 
same emotions and temptations, only in each one of us certain features 
of character are accentuated. No two people are exactly alike, yet 



28 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


each individual, dormant or otherwise, possesses qualities belonging to 
all mankind. Consequently, the writer himself is the best field of 
study. Look into your own heart and ask yourself how you would be 
most«apt to react to certain conditions of environment. 

Observation, both external and personal, is an excellent method of 
securing characters, but perhaps the best method of all is the imagina¬ 
tion. We have all seen enough of life and its complications to know 
what is and what is not reasonable. Granted, therefore, that a char¬ 
acter is placed in certain circumstances, we have only to exercise our 
imagination and our reason to extricate him to our own satisfaction 
and the delight of our reader. 

The manners in which characters conduct themselves vary as the 
conditions, the environment, the locality, vary. A nervous tempera¬ 
ment, if cooped up within limited environs, is more apt to “break 
loose” heavily than he would if given the limits of large areas to 
move in, and whose will and dictates were left unquestioned by any 
authority other than his own. 

Appropriate Names For Characters. 

The point of chief importance in devising names for characters is 
to use only those appellations applying to the condition and char¬ 
acter of your personages. Your hero and heroine, if placed in a story 
of action, will require names signifying courage, resourcefulness, or 
the like. If, on the other hand, your story is one of character, your 
actors should be endowed with names in harmony with the traits which 
they embody. The name Priscilla brings up the picture of a simple, 
pure and dainty maiden, while the name Betty suggests a harum- 
scarem, jolly-good-fellow among girls. Of course, if the ludicrous is 
to be portrayed, a comedy character might be know as Homer or 
Raphael. 

Delineation Other Than That Of Character. 

Description of character in its various phases has already been 
treated of above. It will be the purpose now to deal with description 
of places, sounds, and the like. The writer should first impress upon 
his mind the fact that all description should be essential to the progress 
of his story. If a certain place has an important bearing on the de¬ 
velopment of the story, if it is of a nature that it radically effects the 
course of action, then let it be described by all means, for the clear 
silhouetting of its details will assist the reader in securing a firmer 
grasp of the story action and of the characters. But description for 
description’s sake alone is futile as well as dangerous. In describing 
certain localities, the writer should aim first of all to give to the reader 
a certain totality of impression. In describing a scene, the writer 
should deal with the locality in a systematic manner. I may emphasize 
the device of first describing the main features of a piece of landscape; 
its outlines, such as the towering peak of some mountain, then the 
low-hanging bank of clouds, thrown into gorgeous colors by the rising 
sun. Then, as a closer observation is brought on the scene as the 
sun arises, I may sketch in tersely and graphically lesser details, be¬ 
ginning either close at hand or far away and drawing near. 


Characters and Characterization 


29 


It should be remembered that description is more than that of place. 
There is the bringing to the reader’s mind the breathing, pulsating, 
living side of nature. It includes the rumble of the distant thunder, 
the patter of the rain, the roar of the seas, the call of the gull, and a 
multitude of other sounds and smells and feelings. Thus a man 
whom the hero of a narrative meets may very suggestively be described 
by saying that the hero dropped his hand quickly because of its soft 
clammy feeling. The hand carried the impression of the disingenuous, 
even of treachery. 

As has already been said, two characters may interpret the same 
scene differently, according to their state of mind. Herewith is pre¬ 
sented an excellent means of characterization. A view of one person’s 
emotions may be secured by having him paint a scene optimistically, 
while another gives the same scene in diametrically opposite terms. 

The author should aim to insert his description by a gradual process 
in which the most important scenes are described as the action goes on; 
in this manner it may be sifted in by sure, swift, effective touches. 

Point of View in Description. 

What we mean by point of view in description is that scenes and 
sounds and smells should be described from the point of view of the 
hero or other main personage, for it is in him, his doings and reactions 
to the setting, that the reader is interested, and it is through his eyes 
that the reader will vizualize the story. 

The writer should aim to tell his pictures in the concrete, in terms 
of his own life and experience. He may do this best by appealing to 
the reader’s sense, to his ears, his eyes, to his sense of feeling, to his 
smell; for it is through our senses that we are most acutely attuned to 
life! Above all, the writer should not describe intellectuality or 
attempt to interpret nature in her larger moods. Following are two 
excellent examples of description, brief, yet powerful and suggestive: 

'* * * The two sleek, white, well-bullocks in the 

courtyard were steadily chewing the cud of their evening 
meal; old Pir Khan squatted at the head of Holden’s horse, 
his police sabre across his knees, pulling drowsily at a big 
water-pipe that croaked like a bullfrog in a pond. Ameera’s 
mother sat spinning on the lower veranda, and the wooden 
gate was shut and barred. The music of a marriage-proces¬ 
sion came to the roof above the gentle hum of the city, and a 
string of flying-foxes crossed the face of the low moon.— 
Kipling, Without Benefit of Clergy. 

I raised my eyes and I shall never forget the spectacle I 
saw. The greater part of the smoke had risen and hung like 
a canopy about twenty feet above the redoubt. Through a 
bluish haze one could see the Russian Grenadiers behind their 
half destroyed parapet, with arms raised, motionless as 
statues. It seems to me that I can see now each soldier, with 
his left eye fastened on us, the right hidden by the levelled 
musket. In the embrasure, a few yards away, a man stood 
beside a cannon, holding a fusee.—Merimee, The Taking of 
the Redoubt. 


Chapter V 


METHODS OF BUILDING THE PLOT 

Plot consists of the series of incidents which present a picture of life, 
logical, clear and interesting. In a previous chapter we treated of the 
types of stories—the places, people and circumstances from which plot- 
germs might be obtained. Now that the author possesses an idea, 
a character, a setting or an emotion of which to treat and to bring 
out powerfully in his story, it is necessary that he devise some system 
whereby the theme may be developed to the climax and from thence 
unwound to its natural conclusion. Having his theme ready at hand, 
the author must establish a framework upon which to exhibit it most 
effectively. 

Suppose the author takes as his theme the truth that man receives in 
genuine soul-enjoyment from the world just what he puts into it; that 
he cannot be so self-centered, so narrow as to love only himself or one 
closely related to himself and still hope to grasp life’s real meaning. 
The author, in elaborating this theme, must construct some such work¬ 
ing scheme as this: A father, very wealthy, loves his only son deeply 
and blindly; though he is wealthy, he thinks not of his neighbor nor 
of the misery of others; ever-vital to him is his son’s welfare. So to 
punish him, God, through some natural agency, takes his son away 
from him; the father then comes to realize that there is an ulterior, 
loftier view of life than he hitherto had been able to vision. And the 
broken-hearted father accepts this truth in a Spartan-like spirit of 
humiliation. Such is the theme and the working plan of a famous 
story which we will have occasion to mention in another chapter. 

Plot is not a mere change in place or time; it is not a mere succession 
of incidents of only casual relation to each other. Of such a mere 
succession of incidents would consist the daily life of most people: a 
business man goes to his office, transacts the regular routine of work, 
comes home to luncheon, returns to his work, meets a few acquaint¬ 
ances, has several interviews, performs more work, goes out to dinner, 
takes in a show, or remains home and reads a book, goes to bed—that’s 
all. Things progress, but nothing of importance happens. If the 
man, however, were to go home and find his wife had eloped with 
another man, then discovered that the destroyer of his home had also 
been instrumental in ruining his business, we would have the begin¬ 
nings of a plot. In ordinary life, however, the business man more 
likely would endeavor to settle the matter in court, and what prom¬ 
ised to be the framework of an interesting tale more likely would 
end up in mere, boresome matter-of-factness. Plot, then, is not merely 
a succession of incidents, as a river, running ever in its natural course 
and never deviating from its bed; but is rather a growth, a chain, in 
which each incident is vitally related to every other one, while the 
ones which follow and precede each other are most intimately con¬ 
nected. 


Methods of Building the Plot 


31 


Thus, a young shipping clerk writes his name and address on the 
package of a box of commodities which are being sent to a distant 
state; the same package comes to the attention of a certain young girl, 
who, in a spirit of fun, writes to the young man. The letter she 
writes falls into the hands of the young shipping clerk’s friend and 
working companion. The latter reads the letter to several acquaint¬ 
ances. They plan to write a proposal to the girl, giving the shipping 
clerk’s name and address. Here we have incidents and situations each 
growing out of the preceding. The jokers of the story could not 
have gotten the chance to write the young girl had she not been in¬ 
volved in the plot by the shipping clerk’s fancy, which prompted him 
to jot down his name and address on the packet of goods. And, upon 
the receipt of the letter, the girl might act in a manner still further to 
involve the plot. She might be an adventuress hunting for game, 
or a young author looking for interesting types, and so on. At any 
rate, she might determine to look up the shipping clerk, all unsuspecting 
of the circumstances shaping themselves to snare him. 

From this, the author will see that as the action goes on, the rela¬ 
tions of the characters to each other become more intimate, personal 
and complicated. The story rises in interest, because each situation 
is the logical outcome of its predecessor. Matters become more pre¬ 
carious for the shipping clerk, and the reader is unable to see how he 
is going to avoid a very disagreeable time of it explaining certain 
things. 

Perhaps this matter of plot-building can be made still more obvious 
to the author if the plot is divided into its main technical parts. Thus, 
the plot of the story consists of the Preliminary Situation, The Cul¬ 
mination or Climax, and the Conclusion or Denouement. 

The Preliminary Situation consists of the conditions of the story 
at its inception. In the Preliminary Situation we are informed of the 
time, the setting, characters on the scene, and the incidents leading 
up to the story. As soon as the characters meet and move, we have 
the first incident. Thus, as soon as the shipping clerk had written 
down his name, the story was off. Everything before that, including 
description of the clerk, giving of time, place and condition, and so 
on, made up the Preliminary Situation. 

The plot then progresses step by step, incident by incident, until 
the height of suspense, of complication, or the Climax, has been 
reached. Between the Preliminary Situation and the Climax, in¬ 
clusive, come all the most important elements that go to make up 
the strong plot—the crises and suspense. Each stepping-up place on the 
stair of the plot that leads to the Climax ordinarily marks a minor 
crisis, each crisis growing in interest and suspense until the major crisis 
or Climax has been reached. As the story progresses, the combined 
crises blend their accumulated force into one grand complication— 
the Clumination. Each minor crisis marks the point at which the 
action of the plot becomes more deeply involved for one or more of 
the characters and during which some one emotion is brought to the 
fore. It may be pained surprise, as when a man finds out that his 
best friend has betrayed him, or the discovery by Government officials 
that very important state papers have been stolen. 


32 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Suspense is introduced into the plot by means of opposition to the 
natural course of events. Thus, let us consider again the hypothetical 
case of the business man who is to come home and find his wife gone 
away with another man. Suppose that his wife, after going a short 
distance on her journey of elopement, decides that she is committing 
a crime both against society and a faithful husband. At the first stop, 
she manages to send a telegram informing her husband that she will 
be at such and such a place at a certain hour and praying him to come 
get her, to save her from the consequences of the fearful act she has 
committed. Now the matter of suspense may here be introduced at 
either or both ends of the strand of complication. Thus, the wife 
may be prevented from sending the telegram to her husband; the man 
with whom she is eloping may intercept it through some clever method ; 
or the husband, while coming home from work, may be interrupted in 
such a fashion that he does not get home until late, too late, in fact, 
to meet his wife at the time and place specified in the telegram. And, 
the greater the issues to be brought to a happy close, the more suspense- 
arousing will be the opposition which temporarily delays this happy 
conclusion. 

Of prime importance in constructing a finely-balanced, sturdy and 
artistic plot are the elements of continuity and undivided attention. 
The meaning of these terms is self-explanatory. We have already 
spoken of the value of unity of impression and have cautioned the 
author against the use of a single unnecessary character, piece of 
setting, sub-plot or any one act which would even slightly detract from 
the most economical, while at the same time the most emphatic, elab¬ 
oration of the theme. Anything which is not pertinent clogs and 
confuses. Every single moment the characters are not moving rapidly 
forward, desperately endeavoring to solve their difficulties and to 
extricate themselves from the net of circumstance in which they have 
become involved, the reader is driven to distraction, and silently im¬ 
plores the author to get his thinking machine back on the right course 
again, if only for the reader’s peace of mind. 

The time and manner of ending the story, together with the ele¬ 
ments constituting a proper conclusion, have been dealt with in detail 
under the heading devoted to the ending of the story. 

Originality in the plot involves the author’s method of developing 
his plot-germ. The latter, usually in the form of a theme, or a queer, 
singular situation, may be hackneyed ; however, all great and elemental 
emotions upon which so very many stories are founded, are hackneyed 
and commonplace; hence, it matters little what theme the author 
chooses to exhibit in his story. The great matter of importance is the 
way in which the theme is elaborated for its illustration in the story. 
If the author merely follows out the rut made by the writers who have 
preceded him, then already he is doomed to failure. He should choose 
those situations that have possibilities of greatest development; 
that is, that might be solved in a number of ways. The writer need 
be under no difficulty whatever to find a new, original way to develop 
his theme attractively; for the introduction of a new character, a new 
emotion, a different location or fresh conditions leading up to the 
Preliminary Situation, automatically will point out its own course; 


►Methods of Building the Plot 


33 


naturally, that course will be far different from all other stories 
founded on a similar theme. 

Often, however, the author will wish to choose for his story a cer¬ 
tain situation which already has served as the starting point of a good 
many stories. Take, for example, the incipient incident of so many 
stories in which a helpless babe is left on the doorsteps of a house to 
the mercy of the persons within. One author decided to give this 
threadbare situation a new twist. He got around the old, feeble, in¬ 
effective development by making the house upon whose steps the babe 
is placed an apartment for bachelors. He then had the child dis¬ 
covered by three young bachelors, who, unitedly, declared themselves 
the rightful guardians of the bit of humanity at their feet. Any writer 
now will realize that wonderful possibilities had been opened up for 
the development of the initial situation. The future destiny of the 
child would be determined according to the influence, not merely one, 
but three, people exerted upon him. The character and the future 
course in life of the three bachelors likewise would be vitally changed 
by the entrance of the child into their orbit of existence. 

Any ordinary, commonplace situation, whose constituents are re¬ 
versed, enlarged or warped out of their natural order, will serve 
excellently as a jumping-off place for the plot. Thus, all of us are 
acquainted with the news item which informs us that a mad dog bit 
so-and-so in the leg; but I hardly can imagine that anyone has ever 
read, heard or seen aught of the madman who bit a dog. The cir¬ 
cumstances are exaggerated, but they serve as an example of the possible 
course of procedure. 

Herman Landon, writing of his methods of acquiring and develop¬ 
ing plot-germs, gives, in part: 

“I seek out a concrete object that stimulates my imagination and 
arouses my curiosity. I build one or two concrete objects on the foun¬ 
dation of that object. Having gone thus far, I cast about for a theme. 
An inverted process, perhaps, but I find it works pretty well.” 

The young author may start to build his plot in any order or from 
any point he desires. There will be a certain situation, idea or inten¬ 
tion in his mind that shines out with particular light; he will then 
naturally develop his plot from that attractive situation or idea, 
whether or not the situation be of minor or major importance in the 
completed plot. Thus, that fascinating story, “Robinson Crusoe,” 
might very well have been suggested by the author seeing somewhere 
the imprint of the human foot. Defoe might have asked himself as 
to the nature of the conditions under which a man would be most 
frightfully impressed or astonished by the sight of the imprint of the 
human foot. Most obviously the answer suggests itself: in a clime 
far removed from his own, or on an island where no one else resided, 
and at a time when a visitor was least expected. 

As a means of making more clearly understandable to the amateur 
the method by which stories are resolved into the elements which 
constitute them, and to reveal to him the manner in which unity of 
impression is obtained with the greatest economy of means, we are 
giving here a critical analysis of “The Prodigal Son,” one of Christ’s 
parables. The parable follows, the analysis after that. 


34 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said 
to his father, “Father, give me the portion of goods that 
falleth to me.” And he divided unto them his living. 

And not many days after the younger son gathered all 
together, and took his journey into a far country, and there 
wasted his substance with riotous living. 

And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine 
in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and 
joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him 
into his fields to feed swine. 

And he fain would have filled his belly with the husks 
that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him. 

And when he came to himself, he said, “How many hired 
servants of my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I 
perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and 
will say unto him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and 
before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; 
make me as one of thy hired servants.’ 

And he arose and came to his father. 

But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, 
and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed 
him. 

And the son said unto him, “Father, I have sinned against 
heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called 
thy son.” 

But the father said to his servants, “Bring forth the best 
robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes 
on his feet: 

And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, 
and be merry; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; 
he was lost, and is found.” And they began to be merry. 

Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and 
drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And 
he called one of the servants, and asked what these things 
meant. 

And he said unto him, “Thy brother is come; and thy 
father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received 
him safe and sound.” 

And he was angry, and would not go in; therefore came 
his father out and entreated him. And he answering said 
to his father, “Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither 
transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou 
never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my 
friends; but as soon as this -thy son was come, which hath 
devoured thy living, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.” 

And he said unto him, “Son, thou art ever with me, and all 
that I have is thine. 

“It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad ; 
for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, 
and is found.” 

We will consider this parable in the light of a short story. The 
theme on which it is based, the forgiveness of a father for his erring 


Methods of Building the Plot 


35 


son, is of very broad appeal and of elemental heart interest. We have 
previously been told that unity of impression is best brought about by 
the use of the fewest characters possible for an effective illustration of 
the theme, the striking of the dominant tone at the outset and the 
stripping from the story all details which do not vitally concern it. 
“The Prodigal Son” opens with the sentence, “A certain man had two 
sons”; obviously, then, if the story strikes the dominant tone from the 
outset, it is a character story. And such it is. Now the younger son 
is the more important of the two sons involved because it is he who 
is forgiven; hence it will assist in the story’s impressiveness if he is 
introduced at once into the story, so that the initial situation may be 
started on its way. And so he is. He leaves, wastes his substance, 
tastes life to satiety, as the story relates, finally returning to his old 
home. He is forgiven in the manner already recounted. The story 
might end at this point, for the son has been forgiven; yet the reader 
would not be sufficiently impressed with the power and depth of the 
father’s forgiveness if no other character were to be brought into the 
story to test the true quality of the father’s forgiveness. It is natural 
for parents to love their children devoutly. It would be nothing 
unusual for a father to pardon his only son in such a fashion. But, 
on the other hand, if he has another son who is a model of industry 
and uprightness, the action of the erring soon is apt to be brought into 
greater contrast and the spirit of the father’s forgiveness will receive 
a far greater test. Under these circumstances, if the father forgives 
the younger and erring son, his forgiveness will possess the broad, 
tender spirit as actually related in the story. That the theme of the 
story has thus been demonstrated, the story may come to an immediate 
end, as it does. The story is concluded in the father’s answer to the 
remonstrance of his elder son. This answer is a simple repetition of 
the theme. The plot, as will be noticed, is utterly unencumbered by 
any diversities of whatsoever character. The whole plot is simple, 
even severe, yet the moral truth of the theme has an impressiveness 
which cannot be denied. 


Chapter VI 


BEGINNING AND ENDING 

Many are the stories upon whose merit a searching ray of illumina¬ 
tion can be thrown by the manner in which they are begun, just as 
we may judge people by the way in which they respond to an intro¬ 
duction. If a woman, when a man is presented to her, does her best 
to make the other easy in a company of strangers, w T e may reasonably 
guess she has a kind, thoughtful heart, while for the dashing, young, 
sporty chap who bows in the most approved manner at the time of 
presentation, his face fixed in a set, meaningless smile, we have only 
feelings of dislike. We know the latter’s manner is merely form and 
that his politeness is for politeness’s sake alone; his greeting is super¬ 
ficial and, for that reason, unimpressive. The person to whom he is 
introduced very likely will not be greatly pleased to renew the acquaint¬ 
ance. 

So it is with stories. It has been noted that many young writers 
begin their work in a halting, constrained, awkward fashion. This 
comes from too little practice in writing. It is like riding a bicycle 
for the first time in a number of years; our balance is rather precarious, 
our muscles are not flexible, and, in general, we are not apt to get 
along very nicely. 

It usually is necessary for the writer to proceed several paragraphs 
before he strikes a certain tone, then maintains it throughout. The 
writer should attempt to be neither too enthusiastic to begin his story, 
nor too uncertain as to just how or where to commence his narrative. 
Remember that the beginning is the beginner’s initial bow to the 
public, his first strike for fame, and unless he “makes the riffle” right 
from the start, he will have failed before he fully realizes why. 

A story may be begun expositorily—by giving the main traits of the 
chief character or characters—by description of place, person or per¬ 
sons, by narrative of action, and lastly by dialogue. Of these methods 
the purely expository is rather old-fashioned^ ineffective and largely 
undesirable. It may, admittedly, be interspersed properly with the 
other methods of beginning: thus the first paragraph may be a judicious 
mixture of vitally needed description, narrative and exposition. Yet, 
the method of introducing a story in the purely expository manner, 
especially if it be rather lengthy, is to be avoided. The dominant 
traits of a certain character will be brought out in the action or dia¬ 
logue of the story, so why bother to tell about them beforehand, to 
make the reader wait for the vital, interesting account of adventure. 

First impressions are invariably the strongest; consequently, it is 
up to the tyro to use every method of art at his employment to begin 
the story attractively. The reader is by no means obliged to read any 
story; he is seduced, so to speak, into doing so; and, unless the story 
presages well, unless he can sense an entertaining half-hour within 
the first two or three paragraphs, then it is all up with the author. 
He is designated to the Isle of Discard. 


Beginning and Ending 


37 


Beside being interesting, compressed, forceful and suggestive, the 
introduction must be very much to the point. To come to the heart 
of matters at once is not so difficult by the use of suggestive action or 
by suggestive language. A character may speak two or three lines, 
which, together with the author’s comments, may reveal trait, tend¬ 
ency, purpose and past existence. 

Many writers have seized upon the method of beginning the story 
in a manner characteristic of the story’s mood. This is a very wise 
and a very effective device if the opening incidents or situation only 
can be made attractive enough. As usual, Poe opens his story, “A 
Descent into the Maelstrom,” in a manner prophetic of the manifesta¬ 
tion of his theme; the manner of the beginning, too, is interesting; 
our curiosity is aroused; we are impatient to be on with the tale, for 
the old man’s suggestive words of what happened to him leads the 
reader to believe that he has a bewitching story of the “horror” type 
to peruse. 

“We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some 
minutes the old man seemed too exhausted to speak. 

“ ‘Not long ago,’ said he at length, ‘and I could have guided you 
on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three 
years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened 
before to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to 
tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have 
broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man—but I 
am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a 
jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, 
so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frigtened at a shadow. 
Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting 
giddy?”’ 

If the story is one of character, is written with a strict adherence 
to the principle of unity of impression, it will start off with a brief 
sketch of the main character in some interesting posture. If the tale 
is one of adventure, at its inception we will perceive the hero in some 
thrilling enterprise or about to be involved in some perilous compli¬ 
cation, while, if the story is one of setting, the effect of environment 
on the characters may have a predominant place in the introduction. 
It is not absolutely essential, of course, that a story of action be 
oponed in characteristic action; it may be started off with a brief 
character sketch, or description, or some other device. But the writer, 
by striking the theme of the story in the first few paragraphs, cannot 
go far amiss. 

An excellent method of starting the story is by lively dialogue, in 
which, through the course of several paragraphs of conversation, we 
learn of the relation and attitude of some of the characters toward 
each other. The following dialogue opens Miss Deland’s story, 
“Many Waters.” We learn in a few words the relation of the two 
men, the purpose of one of them, and the attitude both take to the 
initial complication brought out: 

“Well?” 

“True bill; I’m awfully sorry.” 


38 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Thomas Fleming took his cigar out of his mouth and con¬ 
templated the lighted end. He did not speak. The other 
man, his lawyer, who had brought him the unwelcome news, 
began to make the best of it. 

“Of course, it’s an annoyance; but—” 

“Well, yes. It’s an annoyance,” Fleming said, dryly. 

Bates chuckled. “It strikes me, Tom, considering the 
difference between this and the real thing, that ‘annoyance’ 
is just the right word to use.” 

Fleming leaned over and knocked off the ashes into his 
waste basket. He was silent. 

“As for Hammond, he won’t have a leg to stand on. I 
don’t know what Ellis and Grew meant by letting him take 
the case before the Grand Jury. H won’t have a leg to 
stand on!” 

“Give me a light, will you, Bates? This cigar has gone 
out again.” 

Concerning beginning a story with lively dialogue, a warning must 
here be sounded. The good story is a ladder, an ascension to the 
supreme enunciation of the theme. All action brings greater compli¬ 
cation, more intense interest; woe betide the author, then, who allows 
himself to backslide even slightly in the onward march of his story 
toward its height—the culmination. The amateur may think it clever 
to start off with catchy, spirited dialogue, expecting thereby, without 
the possibility of a doubt, to chain the reader’s attention to his story. 
Thinking, then, that the show of fireworks at the beginning of his 
story will insure an attentive audience thence on to the end of the 
script, he proceeds to explain just what brought the hero or the heroine 
in such a perilous circumstance. He may even digress so far as to 
describe the characters, to give all the antecedents, omitting not a 
single one, that preceded the initial incident. 

But the modern reader is wary; he will not need to go very far 
before he will have sniffed a trap to inveigle him into finishing the 
story. Sad to relate, the trap rarely works, as the author will find to 
his displeasure. The reader is only human after all. He dislikes, as 
we all do, to have his curiosity piqued, then to be plunged into tiring 
description, exposition and narrative. The writer must, above all 
else, follow the natural order of interest. After the reader’s interest 
has been aroused, it must not be shattered by spiritless detail, else 
he will not again be cajoled into admitting the author’s trustworthi¬ 
ness. Either the necessary explanations must come prior to the dia¬ 
logue and the initial crisis, or the conversation must be self-explanatory 
of what the occasion is, together with the relation of the characters. 
This latter is an excellent device. The personages meet, discuss prob¬ 
lems paramount to their interests, and, by their talk, disclose their 
intentions, something of their past life, the circumstances leading up 
to the story, give a hint of the theme itself, and gradually sift in the 
important details which otherwise would have to be explained by the 
author himself. The following, from Henry James Froman’s “A 
Doctor of Cheerfulness,” is an excellent example of suggestive 
dialogue: 


Beginning and Ending 


39 


“No, Teddy”—and she laid her tremulous hands on his 
shoulders—“it wouldn’t and it couldn’t succeed. I would 
marry you tomorrow if I saw any hope of its coming out 
right, but I can’t, Teddy.” Tears glistened in her eyes and 
her lips quivered pathetically. 

Even though she was pronouncing his doom, he adored her 
balance of emotion and reasonableness, and, secretly, he felt 
proud that her emotion was on his account. 

“Wait one moment, Rosalind.” And with a tense nervous 
movement he laid a protecting hand upon her arm. Just 
what is it exactly that is the matter with me ? Say the word 
and I’ll change it right now!” 

“When you do change it, Teddy dear, I’ll marry you;” 
and she wiped the tears from her eyes. “But I’m afraid you 
can’t do it in a moment, and I can’t do it for you. I have 
heard of men being cured of all kinds of habits,” she con¬ 
tinued more quietly, turning to the hire; “drinking, smoking, 
drugs—anything except everlasting gloom and nervous irri¬ 
tation. That must take time, and a man has to do it for 
himself.” 

Here in a few words we have sketched for us the relation of the 
man and woman who speak, their present mood, the nature of each, 
and the theme suggested. We know the two are in love, have been 
some time; that the girl is loving, equitable of nature, sympathetic, 
wise in her lover’s moods; we find the man in despair, his dominant 
mood, and we receive a brief view of his nature, gloomy and irritable, 
as the girl herself tells him. So much having been said, the story may 
now proceed more actively; we may then learn in what fashion the 
man changed his nature. The title, “A Doctor of Cheerfulness,” 
suggests that the girl herself will prove to be the medium of his 
metamorphosis. 

But, as has already been said, the large majority of story openings 
are a combination of exposition, description and narrative. The hero 
may be introduced in the first paragraph or two in attitude charac¬ 
teristic or otherwise. A brief description of his physical condition may 
follow, then the author may give a few of the hero’s most interesting 
traits and accomplishments, ending with pure narrative, made up in 
large of the hero’s actions leading up to the first complication of the 
story. The following, from Stevenson’s “The Sire de Maletroit’s 
Door,” is an excellent example of this manner of beginning a story. 
The story is one of adventure and the opening is in mood with the 
theme. 

Denis de Beaulieu was not yet two-and-twenty, but he 
counted himself a grown man, and a very accomplished cava¬ 
lier into the bargain. Lads were early formed in that rough 
warfaring epoch; and when one has been in a pitched battle 
and a dozen raids, has killed one’s man in an honorable 
fashion and knows a thing or two of strategy and mankind, 
a certain swagger in the gait is surely to be pardoned. He 
had put up his horse with due care, and supped with due 
deliberation; and then, in a very agreeable frame of mind, 


40 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


went out to pay a visit in the gray of the evening. It was not 
a very wise proceeding on the young man’s part. He would 
have done better to remain beside the fire or go decently to 
bed. For the town was full of the troops of Burgundy and 
England under a mixed command; and though Denis was 
therew on safe-conduct, his safe-conduct was like to serve 
him little on a chance encounter. 

It was September, 1429; the weather had fallen sharp; a 
flighty piping wind, laden with showers, beat about the town¬ 
ship; and the dead leaves ran riot along the streets. Here 
and there a window was already lighted up; and the noise 
of men-at-arms making merry over supper within, came forth 
in fits and was swallowed up and carried away by the wind. 
The night fell swiftly; the flag of England, fluttering on the 
spire tip, grew ever fainter and fainter against the flying 
clouds—a black speck like a swallow in the tumultuous, 
leaden chaos of the sky. As the night fell the wind rose, and 
began to hoot under the archways and roar amid the tree-tops 
in the valley below the town. 

Ending The Story. 

The story should end the moment the theme has been clearly, logic¬ 
ally and entertainingly illustrated—never before, never later. The 
effect a story has upon the reader is determined very largely by the 
ending; for, if the reader has gotten safely by the beginning, he, by the 
time the ending approaches, has forgotten the manner of introduction. 
Only the main salient events of the plot stand out. And, more than 
all else, he is immediately concerned with the final twist and wind-up 
of the story. 

The conclusion, to be impressive, must leave the main characters 
well disposed of. That is, one of them must not be left hanging over 
a cliff or in some such hazardous position, while another is abandoned 
while on the verge of a momentous decision. We must be satisfied 
with the author’s disposition of the characters, while the closing inci¬ 
dent must be of such a nature that the theme stands forth in the mind, 
clearly outlined, nicely illuminated. 

The conclusion of the story should never be utilized by the author 
as a means of moralizing on the story’s characters or humanity in 
general. The author should not conclude by saying that “the wages 
of sin is death,” and that that was the lot which came to the villain, 
continuing by observing that such a lot will come to all minkind unless 
it reforms immediately and takes care of its tendencies. The ending 
of the story should be as severely bare of all personalities of the author 
as the beginning or any other portion of the story. The ending should 
deal only with the final demonstration of the theme or the working out 
of the climax; it should end briefly and intensively. After the climax, 
the reader’s suspense and curiosity pales rapidly; hense the necessity 
of narrating with expediteness the few events which deposit all the 
elements of the story in their natural positions. 

In a large number of stories, particularly those of O. Henry and 
Edgar Allen Poe, as well as a multitude of present-day writers, the 
conclusion is identical with the climax. This is particularly the case 


Beginning and Ending 


41 


when the story is one of character alone, when the main personage 
makes some great decision which bears out the theme: such as a man, 
who, under great stress of emotion and circumstance, finally decides 
that duty to his country is greater than his love of self-preservation 
and his desire for the beautiful prospects that life holds out for him. 
The man’s decision is at once the climax and the ending; for, after 
he has made the decision, we know well what his future course will be. 
The reader himself can imagine that and what the reader can imagine 
the author is foolish to write. Or, again, in the story of incident, the 
hero is straining every ounce of energy to reach a certain place before 
a catastrophe occurs involving someone dear to him. The climax and 
the ending very well might be the saving of the life or the rescue from 
the dangerous position of the other main character involved. Poe’s 
story, “The Pit and Pendulum,” is a production of this kind, in which 
the climax coincides with the conclusion. 

I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent 
in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I 
tottered upon the brink—I averted my eyes— 

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was 
a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating 
as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An 
outstretched hand caught my own as I fell fainting into the 
abyss. It was that of General Lasselle. The French army 
had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its 
enemies. 

If for no other reason than that of impressing the editor alone, the 
story ending should have just as critical and painstaking preparation 
as the introduction or the climax. Remember that the editor is pur¬ 
chasing the story for the edification and delight of his readers, and 
that which fails to impress him, he will argue, should never reach 
the eyes of his readers. Consequently, the young author should cease¬ 
lessly contrive to end his story as simply, as intensively, as suggestively, 
and as rapidly as possible immediately after the main event of the 
story has transpired. 

The conclusion has the same relation to the story that polish and 
cutting have to the precious gem. In both cases, the final touch brings 
t^ie meaning out to its fullest realization and enlightenment. And it is 
just as necessary that the writer have the manner of ending his story 
well in mind even before he starts it. If he fails to give the introduc¬ 
tion, the body, the climax and the conclusion of his story due regard, 
and fails to balance them nicely before setting pen to paper, his end 
is very likely to simmer out miserably. Usually, the young author 
takes to his writing flush with intense enthusiasm; his characters go 
along finely at the start; but, unless he is capable of sustained effort, 
he will tire toward the end, and the importance of ending with just 
as much spirit and carefulness will not occur to him; or, if it does, 
will not seem of sufficient importance. 

This tendency is especially prevalent with the amateur because he 
has not yet learned that story writing is not a thing of inspiration and 
enthusiasm alone. It is a matter of persistent work, often very arduous 
and tiring, both mentally and bodily. Hence, the vital need of map- 


42 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


ping out beforehand the relative position and the quantitative import¬ 
ance to be held by each detail of the story. 

We present, as an excellent example of story ending, the conclusion 
of O. Henry’s story, “The Buyer From Cactus City.” The hero, a 
wealthy Westerner, has come to the Big City to purchase for his 
department store goods from Zizzbaum £sf Son . He meets, while 
going over the latest styles, the store’s beautiful, though sophisticated, 
model. He falls in love with her, frankly and outspokenly. Zizz¬ 
baum, with an eye to business, commands the model to show the 
Westerner an entertaining evening about the city. The model, 
calmly aware of her part, agrees. The two are out that evening. 
While in a cabaret, the Westerner declares his love, casually stating 
that he is going to take the girl back as his wife, buy her a beautiful 
home, automobile, and so on. The girl disgustedly replies that she 
has “heard that before.” She informs him that he is the usual type, 
and that she is out with him only to jolly him along and get him to 
buy heavily from Zizzbaum & Son. She must play this role or lose 
her job. Then the persistent and outspoken Westerner produces a 
gorgeous diamond ring. The girl repulses him. The two go home, 
and, at parting, the girl strikes her escort in the face. As he steps 
back, a ring falls from somewhere. Let O. Henry tell the rest: 

Platt groped for it and found it. 

“Now, take your useless diamond and go, Mr. Buyer,” 
she said. 

“This was the other one—the wedding ring,” said the 
Texan, holding the smooth gold band on the palm of his 
hand. 

Miss Asher’s eyes blazed upon him in the half darkness. 

“Was that what you meant?—did you”— 

Somebody opened the door from inside the house. 

“Good night,” said Platt. “I’ll see you at the store to¬ 
morrow.” 

Miss Asher ran up to her room and shook the school teacher 
until she sat up in bed to scream “Fire!” 

“Where is it?” she cried. 

“That’s what I want to know,” said the model. “You’ve 
studied geography, Emma, and you ought to know. Where 
is a town called Cac—Cac—Carac—Caracas City, I think 
they called it?” 

“How dare you wake me up for that?” said the school 
teacher. “Caracas is in Venezuela, of course.” 

“What’s it like?” 

“Why, it’s principally earthquakes and negroes and mon¬ 
keys and malarial fever and volcanoes.” 

“I don’t care,” said Miss Asher blithely; “I’m going there 
to-morrow.” 

Tragical and Happy Endings. 

If the young writer should direct a letter to the editor of every 
fiction magazine in the country, asking each if he desired stories with 
happy endings, the answer invariably would -be, “Yes, by all means.” 


Beginning and Ending 


43 


The editor reasons that his magazine is primarily a means of 
amusement and entertainment; there is no more reason why the amuse¬ 
ment afforded by his magazine should result unhappily for all con¬ 
cerned than that other pleasures, such as, skating or dancing, should 
end disastrously, with a drowning or a broken leg. 

Editors must buy stories with happy endings because the people 
desire them almost exclusively. There is an instinct inherent in all 
of us which strives to realize only the healthy, the beautiful and 
cheerfully wholesome in life. Does not the passage of a funeral 
always leave a certain effect of melancholy, momentary, but real never¬ 
theless ? So it is with stories. The tragical ending is permissible only 
on rare occasions, only when some growing wrong must be righted or 
some great theme impressed upon the laggard brain. 


Chapter VII 


DIALOGUE 

Good dialogue must be convincing in quality, must portray exactly 
and suggestively the character from whom the speech comes. The 
reader will be as quick to observe falsity of speech as he is in natural 
life when a person with little or no education attempts to use words 
with which he is not acquainted and with whose exact meaning he is 
in doubt. 

Just as the characters are easily differentiated from each other, so 
must the talk issuing from the mouth of each major individual be 
readily distinguishable from the speech of all other characters, so 
different, in fact, that we may be able to identify by the speeches alone 
the characters to whom they belong. This does not mean, of course, 
that each character should carry continually with him a set manner of 
speech. As Arlowe Bates observes, the use of “quotation marks does 
not convert a passage into dialogue.” There are occasions under 
which even a quiet individual may break into a frenzy of rage. Again, 
an individual backward and halting in speech may, in an emergency, 
rise to the severe exigencies of a situation and show that his slowness 
of speech is merely artificial and not innate; yet, no matter under what 
emotion the character may come, his speech must remain consistent 
with his nature in its larger aspects. No matter what a character 
may say, we in reading his speeches must be able to observe that it is 
entirely possible from what we know and understand of the man. 

Dialogue should portray a character’s mood. At many points in 
emotional stories, made of several minor and one major crises, the 
characters constantly will be under the influence of some stirring 
feelings which they must explain. It is the author’s part to translate 
these emotions in an understandable manner and, through their enun¬ 
ciation, bring out the character’s personality. 

In a short story, the dialogue should never be allowed to digress 
from the development of the plot, as it does in many of the early nine¬ 
teenth century novels, especially those of Dickens. When characters 
are allowed to tell personal experiences and to chirp on in a manner 
which brings out their humorous make-up, they are not helping along 
the story, they are merely a means of drawing caricatures for the 
patient and long-winded reader. Every bit of dialogue in the short 
story should be absolutely indispensable, so that, if any be left out, 
the sense of the story will be spoiled. The use of dialogue is to further, 
to push on, the action of the plot. The story moves by the emotions 
and thoughts of the characters; and, as dialogue portrays both thought 
and emotion, the story progresses rapidly by the correct use of dia¬ 
logue. 

Each speech should contain the hint of that which is to follow, for 
ever before us we behold the stern figure of Artistic Unity pointing out 
to us the way of greatest economy in handling our material. The 


Dialogue 


45 


story dialogue may be so suggestive as to tell in a few words the rela¬ 
tions of the characters, what brought them together, and what of 
importance has transpired. 

Purpose of Dialogue. 

It should be remembered, first and all the time, that dialogue is 
employed to make a story attractive. Life is made up of conversation 
among persons. Those persons would hardly be satisfied in exchanging 
greetings by letter. Man is a social member; he progresses by contact 
with other men. Hence, the liking for dialogue in stories finds its 
motive in a prominent element of human nature itself. Nothing is 
more invigorating and entertaining than living, characteristic and 
pregnant dialogue. As Professor Genung has excellently stated: 

If in the characters is involved the profounder fibre of the 
story, from the management of the dialogue comes largely its 
more buoyant and popular effect. Uncritical readers—whose 
prefences, in fact, ought to be consulted—like a story “with 
lots of conversation in it.” The dialogue serves, as it were, 
to aerate the movement, which else might grow ponderous 
and slow. In the give and take of conversation, too, character 
itself appears, to speak for itself; and many accessory and 
descriptive elements slip in lightly and unobtrusively in the 
words that are said. Aud through it all is traceable the 
forward movement and the approaching end or crisis. 

Dialogue in stories should be a compromise between ordinary con¬ 
versation and the ideally typical. Take the ordinary conversation 
heard on the street, in homes and everywhere people congregate. It 
is too largely chaotic, haphazard and aimless for any practical use. 
It goes forward very slowly and even then its very end is the conversa¬ 
tion itself. Story dialogue should not be in line with this. The char¬ 
acter must always strive through his speeches to reveal, in the first 
few words, the key of the situation. No time must be lost in arguing 
or parleying. As Trollop very truly says: 

The ordinary talk of ordinary people is carried on in short, 
sharp, expressive sentences, which, very frequently, are never 
completed, the language of which, even among educated peo¬ 
ple, is often incorrect. The novel-writer, in constructing 
his dialogue, must so steer between absolute accuracy of lan¬ 
guage—which will give to his conversation an air of pedantry 
—and the slovenly inaccuracy of ordinary talkers—which, if 
closely followed, would offend by an appearance of grimace, 
as to produce upon the ear of his readers a sense of reality. 
If he be quite real, he will seem to attempt to be funny. 
If he be quite correct, he will seem to be unreal. In all this, 
human nature must be the writer’s guide. But in following 
human nature, he must remember that he does so with a pen 
in his hand, and that the reader who will appreciate human 
nature will also demand artistic ability and literary aptitude. 

Perhaps if a group of people should talk continuously for an hour 
on a subject of interest, enough might be said to enable a writer to 
note down several suggestive, typical and characteristic phrases, suffi¬ 
cient, say, to make up a paragraph or two of dialogue. But that 


46 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


would be about all. The story writer snatches typical bits of speech 
here and there, from his imagination, from his experience, and every¬ 
where, then binds them together, and constructs his dialogue. The 
profanity, slang and dialogue of ordinary conversation must be toned 
down considerably, else the result will be preposterous and vulgar. 
“The rough neck” must not be shocking; the slang of the newsboy, 
utterly un-English. The reader is reading to enjoy the story, not to 
be startled by swear words, or disgusted by the slip-shod careless speech 
with which he is only too familiar in his daily life. 

Just as the characters themselves are typical representatives of cer¬ 
tain traits, so must their speech portray ideally the peculiarities of 
these types. It is best only to choose the most interesting and in¬ 
structive element of a character’s speech. Let him hint to us by the 
manner of his talk what sort of a man he is. When he has informed 
us of that, we then wish only to be told what he does and how he 
reacts to the story. 

Speech Labels. 

Instead of describing the manner of a person’s speech as “he said” 
and “she said,” the young author should select terms to describe the 
manner in which the character speaks and the emotion under which 
he labors. For instance, variations of “he said” are: he explained, 
inquired, interrogated, cackled, piped-up, stormed, snarled, suggested, 
hinted, insisted, gave back, answered, informed, intimated, murmured, 
retorted, ejaculated, protested, and so on. To have the variations in 
the manner of speech readily at hand, the writer will be wise to make 
a list of synonymous expressions and learn them thoroughly. They 
will help in marking out more vividly the speech of the characters. 
The writer should observe closely also the manner in which other 
writers label their speeches and profit therefrom. 

We are appending four examples of dialogue, the first two from 
Thackeray’s “Vanity Fair.” Thackeray has the enviable reputation for 
writing more natural dialogue than any other writer. The third 
example is from Kipling’s “Mulvaney” series, and is given to show 
how far one may go in giving dialect. The last one, from O. Henry, 
shows that slang may be free from all vulgarity and still be replete 
with humor. 

******** 

“It’s only your sister, Joseph,” said Amelia, shaking the two fingers 
which he held out. “I’ve come home for good , you know; and this is 
my friend, Miss Sharp, whom you have heard me mention.” 

“No, never, upon my word,” said- the head under the neckcloth, 
shaking very much,—that is, yes,—what abominably cold weather, 
Miss;”—and herewith he fell to poking the fire with all his might, 
although it was in the middle of June. 

“He’s very handsome,” whispered Rebecca to Amelia, rather loud. 

“Do you think so?” said the latter. “I’ll tell him.” 

“Darling! not for worlds,” said Miss Sharp, starting back timid 
as a faun. §he had previously made a respectful virgin-like curtsey to 
the gentleman, and her modest eyes gazed so perseveringly on the 
carpet that it was a wonder how she should have found an opportunity 
to see him. 


Dialogue 


47 


“Thank you for the beautiful shawls, brother,” said Amelia to the 
fire poker. “Are they not beautiful, Rebecca?” 

“O heavenly!” said Miss Sharp, and her eyes went from the carpet 
straight to the chandelier. 

Joseph still continued a huge clattering at the poker and tongs, 
puffing and blowing the while, and turning as red as his yellow face 
would allow him. 

“I can’t make you such handsome presents, Joseph,” continued his 
sister, “but while I was at school I have embroidered you a very 
beautiful pair of braces. 

“Good Gad! Amelia,” cried the brother, in serious alarm, “what do 
you mean?” and plunging with all his might at the bell-rope, that 
article of furniture came away in his hand, and increased the honest 
fellow’s confusion. “For heaven’s sake see if my buggy’s at the door. 

I cant wait. I must go. D-that groom of mine. I must go.” 

******** 

“I wish you’d remember other things as well, sir,” the sire answered. 
I wish you’d remember that in this house—so long as you choose to 
honor it with your company, Captain—I’m the master, and that name, 
and that that—that you—that I say—” 

“That what, sir?” George asked, with scarcely a sneer, filling an¬ 
other glass of claret. 

“-!” burst out his father with a screaming oath—“that the 

name of those Sedleys never be mentioned here, sir—not one of the 
whole damned lot of ’em, sir.” 

“It wasn’t I, sir, that introduced Miss Sedley’s name. It was my 
sisters who spoke ill of her to Miss Swartz; and by Jove I’ll defend 
her wherever I go. Nobody shall speak lightly of that name in my 
presence. Our family has done her quite enough injury already, I 
think, and may leave off reviling her now she’s down. I’ll shoot any 
man but you who says a word against her.” 

“Go on, sir, go on,” the old gentleman said, his eyes starting out of 
his head. 

“Go on about what, sir? about the way in which we’ve treated that 
angel of a girl. Who told me to love her? It was your doing. I 
might have chosen elsewhere, and looked higher, perhaps, than your 
society; but I obeyed you. And now that he heart’s mine you give me 
orders to fling it away, and punish her, kill her perhaps—for the 
faults of other people. It’s a shame, by Heavens,” said George, work¬ 
ing himself up into passion and enthusiasm as he proceeded, “to play 
at fast and loose with a young girl’s affections—and with such an 
angel as that—one so superior to the people amongst whom she lived, 
that she might have excited envy, only she was so good and gentle, 
that it’s a wonder anybody dared to hate her. If I desert her, sir, 
do you suppose she forgets me?” 

“I ain’t going to have any of this dam sentimental nonsense and 
humbug here, sir,” the father cried out. “There shall be no beggar- 
marriages in my family. If you choose to fling away eight thousand 
a year, which you may have for the asking, you may do it; but by Jove 
you take your pack and walk out of this house, sir. Will you do as I 
tell you, once for all, sir, or will you not?” 




48 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


“Marry that mulatto woman?” George said, pulling up his shirt 
collar. “I don’t like the color, sir. Ask the black that sweeps opposite 
Fleet Market, sir. I’m not going to marry a Hotentot Venus.” 

Mr. Osborne pulled frantically at the cord by which he was accus¬ 
tomed to summon the butler when he wanted wine—and almost black 
in the face, ordered that functionary to call a coach for Captain 
Osborne. 

“I’ve done it,” said George, coming into the Slaughters’ an hour 
afterwards, looking very pale. 

“What, my boy?” says Dobbin. 

George told what had passed between his father and himself. 

“I’ll marry her to-morrow,” he said with an oath. “I love her more 

every day, Dobbin.” 

* * * * * # * 

“Eyah! They was great times. I’m ould now; me hide’s wore 
off in patches; sinthrygo has disconceited me, an’ I’m a married man 
tu. But I’ve had my day—I’ve had my day, an’ nothin’ can take 
away the taste av that! Oh my time past, whin I put me fut through 
ivry livin’ wan av the Tin Commandmints between Revelly and 
Lights Out, blew the froth off a pewter, wiped me moustache wid the 
back av me hand, an’ slept on ut all as quiet as a little child! But ut’s 
over—ut’s over, an’ ’twill niver come back to me; not though I 
prayed for a week av Sundays. Was there any wan in the Ould 
Rig’mint to touch Corp’ril Terence Mulvaney yhin that same was 
turned out for sedukshin? I niver met him. Ivry woman that was 
not a witch was worth the runnin’ afther in those days, an’ ivry man 
was my dearest f rind or—I had stripped to him an’ we knew which was 
the betther av the tu.” 

“Cheese it,” said the Captain harshly. I’m not hogging it yet. 
It’s all on the outside. I went around on Essex and proposed marriage 
to that Catrina that’s got the fruit shop there. Now, that business 
could be built up. She’s a peach as far as a Dago could be. I thought 
I had that senoreena mashed sure last week. But look what she done 
to me! I guess I got too fresh. Well there’s another scheme queered” 

“You don’t mean to say,” said Murray, with infinite contempt, 
“that you would have married that woman to help yourself out of 
your disgraceful troubles!” 

“Me,” said the Captain. “I’d marry the Empress of China for one 
bowl of chop suey. I’d commit murder for a plate of beef stew. I’d 
steal a wafer from a waif. I’d be a^Mormon for a bowl of chowder.” 

“I think,” said Murray, resting his head on his hands, “that I would 
play Judas for the price of one drink of whiskey. For thirty pieces 
of silver I would—” 

“Oh, come now!” exclaimed the Captain in dismay. “You woldn’t 
do that, Murray? I always thought that Kike’s squeal on his boss 
was about the lowest-down play that ever happened. A man that 
gives his friend away is worse than a pirate.” 


Chapter VIII 


SETTING 

Setting in a story is the time, place and conditions under which the 
action of the story transpires. All stories possess an air of realistic 
distinction and tone. Setting bears the same relation to the story that 
the sound drum bears to the Victrola. In both cases, the lack of the 
developing feature of setting and sound drum will detract greatly 
from the final impression of the story and the music. 

Dramas originally were given practically with no setting whatso¬ 
ever. The old morality plays were very crude affairs indeed with 
regard to scenic effects and costuming of the actors. The spectator 
required a very sympathetic and enthusiastic nature for the plays to 
accept them as they were presented. In our modern dramas and 
musical comedies, however, everything is changed. The stage man¬ 
agers of the various companies vie with each other in setting their 
plays in veritable dreams of splendor. The characters are gowned 
as prince and princess born to the purple, while all settings of what¬ 
ever kind are drawn with an eye to a certain effect in view. The 
settings are planned, above all else, to be always in tone with the 
theme of the story as well as the key of each particular situation. 
Through the proper use of setting, the short story and drama have 
been developed to the present distinguished and cogent standards. 
Some stories require only enough setting to give the story stability and 
to assist in the ultimate unity of impression desired. This is the case 
in stories based on character or incident. In such stories the setting 
must not be allowed to interfere with the characters and situations in 
which they become involved; and, even though a story be one of set¬ 
ting, the writer should be very careful that he does not introduce 
setting for setting’s sake alone, but has rather a definite predetermined 
object in view in every place and condition described; otherwise, his 
story will lag and become wearisome. 

Setting in a story should be given, in so far as possible, suggestively. 
Thus, the writer may say that the countenances of those present were 
blanched to a deadly white by the spectre which met their eyes. 

The more lifelike and concrete a setting can be made the more 
believable and credible will be the resulting story. The tales of old 
usually began with “Once upon a time.” They might have occurred 
anywhere and at any time. This is perhaps one of the main reasons 
why such stories have an air of utter improbability. We do not know 
where they occurred. We have no idea of location. We are in a 
quandary as to under what conditions the action took place; hence, 
our imagination is given a very severe and, in some cases, disastrous 
test. Either through direct narrative description or by the speech 
of his characters, the writer should give definitely the setting of his 
story. In the following paragraph, the initial one in O. Henry’s 
“The Whirligig of Life,” the author thus briefly summarizes the 
setting: 


50 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


“Justice of the Peace, Renaja Weddup, sat in the door of his office. 
Halfway of the zenith the Cumberland range rose blue-gray in the 
afternoon haze. A speckled hen swaggered down the main street of 
the ‘settlement,’ cackling foolishly.” 

Emotion in the Setting. 

Man is acted upon by the nature of his surroundings. Think to 
yourself of the effect that certain localities, through the passage of 
years, have grown to hold upon you. The sight of a certain faraway 
range of mountains will bring certain trains of thought into your 
mind. Certain impulses may suddenly spring up at the smell of a 
flower or the sound of a chime ringing; the impulses thus precipitated 
may influence radically the events of your life for a long time after¬ 
ward. Suppose, for instance, that you had lived for years in a certain 
hilly country; that your home nestled in a pretty little valley which 
you had grown to love and regard as part of your very being. To 
continue with the hypathesis, you had always lived among friends who 
were congenial, sympathetic and who understood your very moods. 
Consider your feelings, then, if, by force of circumstances, you were 
suddenly snatched away from your sleepy little town among the 
hills and were drawn into the roaring maw of a huge city, where you 
saw no loving face, met no friend to speak a cheering word, and 
where all was strange and new. Do you not thing such a new life 
might have a radical bearing on your thoughts and actions? Might 
you not in moments of desperation do the things that would be im¬ 
possible to you when still within the sympathetic fold of your friends 
at home? This goes to show the effect environment has on the indi¬ 
vidual. How strong a hold it has gained upon an individual may be 
determined largely by the manner in which his nature reacts to 
environment. The nature of one’s surroundings has a direct bearing, 
too, upon one’s own feelings. When Old Sol smiles, man is very apt 
to do likewise. When gloom and chill settles over the earth, people 
are very apt to reflect nature’s new tone and sob with her in downcast 
moods. 

Emotional Contrast In Setting. 

Certain settings are often used as a means of bringing out by 
contrast an opposite feeling or condition in the character. Thus, a 
character may be under strain of poignant grief. He may be drinking 
the dregs of utter despondency. To emphasize his feelings and to 
bring them out more sharply, the writer may describe the landscape 
and nature’s various manifestations as being peaceful and tranquil. 
The same holds true for the opposite. Man may be happy and satis¬ 
fied, while all around him the elements roar forth their anger. 

Setting As Determining the Incidents. 

Setting includes all the elements of a person’s environment, all the 
elements of nature, of social and occupational life, business, profes¬ 
sional, and so forth. Hence, according as a person’s relation to a 
certain condition of setting is accentuated, so is the story determined 
by the setting. If I am employed in, say, a telegraph office, my actions, 
the people whom I meet, the doings of the day, the thoughts that 
come to me, are largely predetermined by the very limitations of the 
occupation in which I am engaged. 


Setting 


51 


Stevenson says regarding the influence of setting on incident: 

There are, so far as I know, three ways, and three ways 
only, of writing a story. You may take a plot and fit char¬ 
acters to it, or you may take a character and choose incidents 
and situations to develop it, or lastly you may take a certain 
atmosphere and get action and persons to express and realize 
it. I’ll give you an example in “The Merry Men.” There 
I began with the feeling of one of those islands on the west 
coast of Scotland, and I gradually developed the story to 
express the sentiment with which the coast effected me. 

One thing in life calls for another; there is a fitness in 
events and places. The sight of a pleasant arbour puts it 
in our mind to sit in it. One place suggests work, another 
idleness, a third early rising and rambles in the dew. The 
effect of night, of any flowing water, of the peep of day, of 
ships, of the open ocean, calls up in the mind an army of 
anonymous desires and pleasures. Something we feel should 
happen; we know not what, yet we proceed in quest of it. 
And many of the happiest hours of life fleet by us in the vain 
attendance on the genius of the place and moment. It is 
thus that tracts of young fir, and low rocks that reach into 
deep soundings, particularly torture and delight me. Some¬ 
thing must have happened in such places, and perhaps, ages 
back, to members of my race; and when I was a child I tried 
in vain to invent appropriate games for them, as I still try, 
just as vainly, to fit them with the proper story. Some places 
speak distinctly. Certain dark gardens cry aloud for a 
murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain 
coasts are set apart for shipwreck. Other spots again seem 
to abide their destiny, suggestive and impenetrable. 

Influence of Setting on Character. 

Man, as has already been announced, is a creature of his environ¬ 
ment. His aspect on life very likely will be colored by the setting in 
which he is placed. Zola, the French novelist, for instance, was 
reprimanded by Brauntiere, a French critic, for describing one of his 
characters as moved by the various colors mirrored in a pool of water 
before his house. The critic did not think it was lifelike to have a 
man influenced by such a trivial circumstance, but Zola and his con¬ 
temporaries were more acute analyzers of the effect setting bears on 
character. 

The business in which we are engaged, the places we visit, the 
things we have, all are extremely vital in determining our course of 
action in life. Change one and you vary the individual for a day; 
change them all and your personage will experience an entirely differ¬ 
ent outlook upon life. For instance, if a man is a minister, he may, 
by mere nature of his occupation and by no sense of morality inherent 
in him, be expected to act differently under certain circumstances than 
would a person of some other profession if placed under like conditions. 

The Part the Weather Plays in a Story. 

If the writer will reflect for but a moment, he will recall what a 
vast number of stories of adventure or incident were founded on some 


52 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


phase of weather; upon a thunder shower, a cyclone, a snow storm 
of the Dakota type, or a sand storm of the desert. A typical instance 
of this sort is Conrad’s story of the sea, “The Typhoon.” If the 
writer has sufficient command of words to portray the sounds of the 
elements in distress, he has at his beck and call a very effective means 
of entertainment. Stories of storms or of the weather contain un¬ 
limited possibilities. 

Local Color. 

Artists especially noted for the distinct tincture of local color that 
their stories contain are: Bret Hart and Hamlin Garland, whose 
stories portray the life and manners of the West and middle West; 
Cable, whose stories are of the intimate southland; Mary Wilcox 
Freeman, whose characters portray the tone and atmosphere of quaint 
New England life, and so on. The stories of these and such writers 
are distinguished because of the local color which they introduce into 
their stories. They give the tone, the atmosphere, the concentrated 
meaning of the locality of which they write. Their stories portray 
effectively and unmistakably the domestic tones and distinguishing 
features of certain localities. All details of setting are selected in such 
a manner as to bring out the spirit and the pervading atmosphere of 
the place, while all details which do not assist in the unity of impres¬ 
sion are rigidly suppressed. 

Hour To Enlarge Your Creative Ability So That 
Your Capacity For Writing Is Endless. 

The solution is simple, so simple, in fact, that by its very manifest¬ 
ness alone will it have failed to occur to the majority of writers. 
Most beginners are determined to have writing the art of the juggler, 
of the necromancer; they rather imagine that successful authors are 
born under lucky stars; that their horoscope has been read by some 
astrologer, who advised them to write; that a person’s adaptability 
for writing is divined by a soothsayer who foresees that some day the 
would-be author will be winning the frenzied plaudits of the world. 
But the truth of the matter is, creative ability is nothing more or less 
than the process of constant thinking, of continual invention of plots, 
the endless elaboration of themes, the tireless devising of attractive 
situations, the illustration, in a multitude of ways, of elemental 
emotions. 

It is sufficient proof of this statement when one considers that people 
who have written for some time never have the slightest difficulty in 
securing ideas. They have become so accustomed to habits of observa¬ 
tion, their imagniations have been so developed, their powers of 
exhibiting themes so enlarged, that plot-building is no longer a con¬ 
scious but an unconscious process. Do not the fingers, in certain 
trades, become so nimble and skilled that they can perform seeming 
miracles? But the brain itself is capable of being developed to a 
thousand-fold more nimble state than the fingers. Every plot you 
devise makes the next one easier, and also suggests another. And, as 
you proceed, as you construct plot after plot, you find that plot-building 
is the easiest part of writing. Never was more apt observation made 
than, “Practice makes perfect.” 


Chapter IX 


STYLE 

As the French academician observed, “Style is the Man.” Style 
in writing is just as true a portrayal of what a man is—how his texture 
of thought is woven together—as are the actions of his life. Style 
is a particular method of writing and no two men are gifted with the 
same method, just as no two people are alike. Style is a garb of many 
colors, a thing of many constituents. Stories may be told in a multi¬ 
tude of styles. Thus, a story’s style may be elegant, awkward, smooth, 
dull, involved, ornate, poetical, simple, melodious, and so forth, all 
depending on the individual who impresses on it the inevitable stamp 
of personality. Style is like a mirror, it reflects exactly the peculiari¬ 
ties of each detail of its master. If a man be nervous temperamentally, 
his style is sure to reflect those characteristics, and very likely will be 
choppy and uneven in many places. A writer of nervous temperament, 
too, is quite likely to have a versatile style, one possessing many dif¬ 
ferent qualities. 

But it is not necessary to go into a technical discussion of the ele¬ 
ments that constitute all the various kinds of style; such a discussion 
is in the realm of rhetoric. It will be necessary only to sketch in 
the rough the main and salient features of style, for it is true that the 
better the style of the story, the more pleasure will it give to the 
reader. Yet, it is the truth that present-day stories have very little, 
if any, style. Out of the hundreds of stories that appear monthly in 
all our vast number of periodicals, but few can be said to possess a 
good style. Compare any of the stories which you may read in current 
magazines with some of the stories of Henry van Dyke, the master 
dictionist, whose style is as limpid and smooth-flowing as the water in 
a sand-bottomed brook. But perhaps just because of the fact that so 
many accepted stories lack good style, the writer will decide not to 
bother greatly about the elements of style. The writer may decide 
that question for himself. If he does not care to develop a distinctive 
and beautiful style, it may not much matter in the long run. Still, 
all stories must be told clearly, simply, and smoothly. The words of 
the story must be such as to bring forth mental images to the mind of 
the reader. Only sufficiently to accomplish these things is it necessary 
for the writer to study style. The supreme duty of every story writer 
is to make himself understood absolutely. To write clearly and 
without equivocation, and to write in such a manner that not one bit 
of doubt arises in the reader’s mind as to what the author means, is a 
great task as well as a* great duty. 

In real life O. Henry was a very humorous and observing individual, 
bubbling over with good-fellowship and taking a great joy in recording 
the characteristic oddities of people in general. The following ex¬ 
tract from one of his stories will reveal his humorous outlook on life. 
It is a fine example of the statement, “Style is the Man.” 


54 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


“A trust is its weakest point,” said Jeff Peters. 

“That,” said I, “sounds like one of those unintelligible 
remarks such as, ‘Why is a policeman ?’ ” 

“It is not,” said Jeff. “There are no relations between 
a trust and a policeman. My remark was an epigram—an 
axis'—a kind of mulct’em in parvo. What it means it that 
a trust is like an egg. If you want to break an egg you have 
to do it from the outside. The only way to break up a trust 
is from the inside. Keep sitting on it until it hatches. Look 
at the brood of young colleges and libraries that’s chirping 
and peeping all over the country. Yes, sir, every trust bears 
in its own bosom the seeds of its destruction like a rooster 
that crows near a Georgia colored Methodist camp meeting, 
or a Republican announcing himself a candidate for governor 
of Texas.” 

To be certain regarding the effect and qualities of pure, distinctive 
style the writer should make a study of the diction of several of the 
master writers such as Dickens, Stevenson, Addison, Kipling, Poe, 
Hawthorne, Conrad, and so forth, comparing their style with his 
and ending up by striving to imitate their peculiarities of writing. 
In this way he may be assisted in his choice of words. Of a like method 
of self-improvement Stevenson says: 

“Whenever I read a book or a page that particularly pleased me, 
in which a thing was said or effect rendered with propriety, in which 
there was either some conspicuous force or some happy distinction in 
the style I must sit down at once to ape that quality. I was unsuc¬ 
cessful, and I knew it; and tried again, and was again unsuccessful, 
and always unsuccessful; but at least in these vain bouts I got some 
practice in rhythm, in harmony, in construction and co-ordination of 
parts. 

“I have thus played the sedulous ape to Hazlitt, to Lamb, to Wads¬ 
worth, to Sir Thomas Browne, to Defoe, to Hawthorne, to Mon¬ 
taigne. 

“That, like it or not, is the way to learn to write; whether I have 
profited or not, that is the way. It was the way Keats learned, and 
there never was a finer temperament for literature than Keats.” 

Style varies according to the type of story to be written. Thus, in a 
^tory of swift, continuous action, the style should consist of short, 
forceful sentences. All ornamentation, figures of speech, and the like, 
must be eliminated, for all must center around the tempestuous 
onrush of events. If the story is one of mystery or tragedy, the style 
should lean to the choice of words in which the feeling of fear or 
horror is aroused. Thus, in Poe’s story, “The Fall of the House of 
Usher,” his sentence structure and his choice of words are such that 
sensations of mystery and trouble are produced, which sensations come 
not entirely from the fact that the story deals with elements of the 
supernatural. Again, in Poe’s story “Ligeia,” the style or choice of 
words plays a prominent part in bringing out tones of melancholy. 

The Three Qualities of Style. 

Clearness .—To arouse emotion in the reader, the style must be 
clear, for the emotions are aroused through the reason and we read by 


Style 


55 


our reason. In clearness of style are included clearness of thought 
and clearness of expression. We must think a thing clearly before we 
can express it well. To be intelligible the writer’s every sentence must 
contain ideas clearly and logically related to each other. It would not 
be clear to say, “The disguised figure disappeared through the window 
and at that moment the officers rushed into the scene.” In the same 
sentence two ideas are presented without any perfectly obvious rela¬ 
tion except that of chance. The sentence should read, “The officers 
rushed into the scene just as the disguised figure disappeared through 
the window,” making one part of the sentence subordinate to the other. 

As an important assistance to clearness, adverbs, adjectives and pro¬ 
nouns should be placed carefully to modify the words and antecedents 
to which they are most vitally related. 

Force .—When a writer wishes to be impressive, to be emphatic, 
to arouse emotion, and to stress sensational situations, he employs a 
forceful style. As Professor Genung observes: 

“As related to the writer himself, force in style is the result and 
evidence of some strong emotion at work infusing vigor into his 
words. He realizes vividly the truth of what he says and so it becomes 
intense and fervid; he has a deep conviction of its importance, and so 
it becomes cogent and impressive. Along with this fervor of feeling 
his will is enlisted; he is determined, as it were, to make his reader 
think as he does and to make his cause prevail. Every employment of 
word and figure is tributary to this. Genuine force in style cannot be 
manufactured; if the style has not serious conviction to back it, it 
becomes contorted; if it has no vivifying emotion, it becomes turgid. 
Force is the quality of style most dependent on character.” 

To impart force the writer should use only those words which 
indicate strength, which imply bigness or swiftness of movement. He 
should eliminate carefully all merely superficial adjectives and adverbs 
so that the sentences carry the thought effectively. Force in the 
sentence is inherent in the sentence’s arrangement. To employ a 
maximum of force, the main idea in a sentence should be arranged 
culminatingly so that it comes at the first or the last of the sentence. 

Beauty .—Beauty means making the story a thing of delight to the 
ear, mind, sense of proportion, and so on. It means the elimination 
of all harsh words and combination of words. The use of melodious 
words, of alliterative words, of suggestive words, such as, “murmur¬ 
ing” and clash,” having a strong resemblance in sound to the idea they 
express, are practices which lend to the beautification of a work. 
Lastly in the element of beauty comes the use of figures of speech, such 
as simile, metaphor, personification, etc. 


Chapter X 


UNITIES OF TIME, PLACE AND ACTION 
Unity of Time. 

Ordinarily, the plot of the short story is based on a series of events 
culminating in a single crisis in the life of one person. A novel might 
deal with several such crises in the life of one individual, for very few 
persons pass through only one; or the novel may be so involved as to 
encompass the crises in the lives of several personages. In the short 
story, however, this is not allowable, as its purpose is to reproduce a 
single phase of Humanity in the life of one solitary character. This 
crisis of the character may be treated in detail, or otherwise, according 
to how many words the story is to contain. 

It is absolutely necessary that the short story be limited in its re¬ 
production of life; otherwise, it will not leave an unified impression; 
no particular theme will be brought out with a definiteness of outline, 
for it would be impossible to choose haphazardly from the chaotic 
welter of life a series of incidents leading consistently to the intelligible 
illustration of some truth. No lesson could be learned from it, no 
theme elaborated.. Hence, the short story must embrace not only a 
series of events, well-balanced and chosen to set forth a theme, but 
must likewise be closely bound together by unity of time. 

We remember well those things that happen one after the other in 
point of time and relation. We receive thusly a continuous picture, 
for the events that occur all are intimately akin; they have a singleness 
of purpose which imprints its meaning firmly upon the memory. And, 
when the various events composing a story tread closely on the heels 
of those which follow, the illusion is more real, for all life is a con¬ 
stantly flowing stream of action and incident. 

This, then, affords sufficient reason why the author should weave 
the incidents of his plot closely together in point of time. It is not 
necessary to show the hero in his early boyhood, and to reveal how, 
while yet a young boy, he was fascinated by the girl he eventually 
marries. Nor is it necessary to draw out a courtship through all the 
mazes of the wooing, proposal, preparations for marriage, honeymoon, 
and so on. The story should commence where the first incident of 
themic significance begins and where the crisis of the main character— 
the crisis chosen for the story—is inaugurated. If it does not begin 
until the main character is well along in life, then the writer should 
leap into the story at that point. We are not interested in knowing 
what has gone before to make up the person’s character. But we are 
curious to know what his present character is; we may even desire 
a few hints as to what events contributed to his present situation and 
outlook on life, such as: “Channing had not accepted the rebuffs of 
life philosophically; they had left him suspicious, sarcastic, cynical.” 

The author should choose those subjects which can be handled 
without the introduction of great lapses of time, years in length, and 
recurring at frequent intervals. The proper length of time for the 
characters to act out the story’s action ordinarily is not more than one 


Unities of Time, Place and Action 


57 


or two years, but very many of them do not consume more than a day 
or two, or even an hour. The greater the unity of time in the story, 
the stronger will be the impression of unity left with the reader; 
and unity of impression is what the author is striving for. 

In some stories, however, the passage of many years and the em¬ 
phasis of time is the very thing from which the story draws its effect¬ 
iveness. In De Maupassant’s story, “The Necklace,” the mere 
mention of the ten years and all they signify to the main characters is 
appalling indeed. It is from this relatively great length of time in 
the life of the two characters that the story takes its significance. In 
stories dealing with, or stressing, the passage of numbers of years, the 
beginner has but a poor chance of dealing adequately with the subject 
chosen. Stories of this character usually are stories of purpose or of 
idea. Such a one is Bjornstjerne Bjornson’s, “The Father.” The 
story relates, in graphic simplicity and nakedness of decorative quali¬ 
ties, the self-centered love of the father for his son. This is the story 
spoken of in a previous chapter. We will give extracts showing the 
passage of time. 

“The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and most 
influential person in his parish; his name was Thord Overaas. He 
appeared in the priest’s study one day, tall and earnest. 

“ ‘I have got a son,’ said he, ‘and I wish to present him for baptism.’ 

* * * “One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in 

the priest’s study. 

“ ‘I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be 
confirmed to-morrow.’ * * * 

“Eight years more rolled by and then one day a noise was heard 
outside of the priest’s study, for many men were approaching, and at 
their head was Thord, who entered first. * * * 

“ ‘I am here to request that the banns may be published for my son ; 
he is about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who 
stands here beside me.’ 

* * * “A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing 

across the lake. * * * 

“The Son threw out his arms, uttered a shriek and fell over¬ 
board. * * * 

* * * “For three days and three nights people saw the father 

rowing round and round the spot, without taking either food or 
sleep.* * * 

“It must have been a year from that day.” * * * 

Unity of Place . 

The average reader finds it far easier to accept the passage of time, 
to comprehend the lapse of one. or several years between the time 
required to take up the thread of the story where it was dropped, than 
to imagine a change of scene. Thus, we may say that ten years have 

passed, but it is not necessary then that the story be resumed in different 

scenes; more likely it will be resumed in surroundings similar to those 
in which it was broken off. To accept a change of scene requires 
a great mental exercise. If every change of scene in a story demanding 
several shifts in locality are important, then it will be necessary to 


58 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


sketch them with some clarity. The reader is thus forced to a great 
mental strain in order to assimilate all the details of the varied scenes; 
his interest becomes diffused; he becomes conscious of himself; his 
concentration is scattered; his tale of amusement has become an 
exercise of memory. 

The wise author, then, will let his characters act within the smallest 
possible area consistent with a fitting elaboration of his theme. This 
may be one or two places or more, but preferably as few as possible. 
Of course there are some scenes in which very important events tran¬ 
spire, and in which the elements of setting have a peculiar effect on 
the actions of the characters. Such a locality must be sketched in with 
some detail and care. But, once the reader has mastered this scene, 
he should not be hurried on to another which is described with just 
as much particularity. If such is the case, the story will contain far 
too much description. Consequently, the very best method the author 
can employ in imparting unity of place to his works is to describe with 
some definiteness only the one or two main settings of his story and 
bring the characters back to these settings as often as possible. It will 
then be necessary only to mention the setting; the reader will already 
have formed a mental picture of the place, hence will be under no 
necessity of further thinking effort to establish the location. 

The writer must^ever bear in mind that the reader desires to become 
identified with the characters of the story; therefore, the constant 
intrusion of the writer who forces the reader to tear his attention from 
the consuming interest of the action of the story to the mere setting 
in which the various incidents take place, is aggravating in the extreme. 

Let there be only a very few scenes sketched in detail; it will be 
sufficient to leave the other changes to the imagination of the reader 
himself by leaving the details of the background indefinite. If the 
hero goes to church, merely mention the church; the reader has his 
own type of church in mind, and it would be merely a waste of time 
on the author’s part, as well as a distraction for the reader, to tell of 
what materials the church was composed. And, if no important 
events transpire in the heroine’s home, it is again of no particular 
advantage to describe the various trapings and drapings that compose 
the sitting room. 

Most people greatly enjoy travel; they like to visit foreign coun¬ 
tries. They love to wonder at the beauty of far-off climes, to hear 
new sounds and smell strange, entrancing perfumes. But novelty of 
change comes easily through the eye, which immediately registers a 
picture on the brain without any effort on the part of the individual. 
To visualize a change of scene, however, is a much different matter; 
for the ordinary individual, it requires a distinct effort. The author, 
then, may easily imagine what pleasure a person might extract from 
a tale constantly interspersed with detailed descriptions of place and 
condition. So let the author decide to fasten upon two or three main 
localities to carry on his story; let the reader know those particular 
places well and even learn to love them; but let the writer merely 
mention all over changes of scenes as changes only. For examples, 
“The forest,” “On the way home,” “He took dinner at the inn,” and 
“They toiled up the mountain.” 


Unities of Time, Place and Action 


59 


Unity of Action. 

A story, to possess unity of action, must be concerned only with one 
main crisis of a character’s life; therefore, it obviously is not within 
the ability of the short story to delineate the slow development of a 
character and to give the numerous incidents which ordinarily influ¬ 
ence him to one state of mind or another. The slow development or 
gradual degeneration of character requires the larger scope of the 
novel for adequate treatment. Hence, the writer should avoid writing 
the story which requires the deliberate growth of character, or involves 
a change in character requiring the passage of years and the influence 
of innumerable incidents to bring it about clearly and satisfactory. 
To insure unity of action, be sure to exclude all incidents which do 
not directly contribute to the approach and accomplishment of the 
main crisis. This includes the extinction of all sub-plots and extrane¬ 
ous characters, as well as all bits of setting and characterizations not 
having the realization of the theme constantly in view. Do not think 
to heighten the suspense or draw out the interest by introducing little 
sideshows into the story texture. They inevitably detract from the 
main issue of the plot; the story ends without having imparted a 
single impression; the theme of the plot misfires, and the reader has no 
single or dominant view of life to take away with him. Sub-plots, 
rather than adding to the interest in the main trend, or strand, of the 
plot, invariably dissipate that interest. The secret of success in the 
short story, then, is simplicity rather than complication and involved 
artfulness—simplicity in the number of characters, in the emotions 
which the characters experience, in change of scene, number of inci¬ 
dents, course of time, and so on. 

By some strange and unexplainable twist of fate, people in general 
have been left to believe that the way of the story teller is very devious 
indeed; that he deals in strange concoctions of endless constituents. 
It is true that the elements with which he deals are many—for his 
realm is that of Life, the world—but his subject for each single story 
is only a very infinitesimal atom of existence, handled to bring out 
some phase of life helpfully, interestingly and intelligibly to the rest 
of the world. 


Chapter XI 


UNITY OF IMPRESSION 

Unity of impression presupposes unity of conception, deep sympathy 
with the story and its characters and the maintenance of a general tone 
throughout. A story may progress logically, swiftly, and clearly from 
the preliminary situation right through to the conclusion, without 
halt or hesitation; it may be a model of well-balanced short-story 
structure; it may be a delight for the contemplation of a critical 
analyzer, yet fall short of conviction and impressionistic qualities. 

In other words, there is a higher law in story writing than that of 
mere mathematics; there is a larger aim than a strict adherence to 
certain rules regarding the order of events, plot construction, char¬ 
acters, title, and so on. That final test of the artist in short-story 
writing deals with unity of impression, of imparting a certain dis¬ 
tinctive tone or spirit to the story, according to the purpose of the 
author and the emotion predominant in the story. Unity of impres¬ 
sion gives a story character, imparts to it a certain individuality that 
should cling to the memory of the reader long after he has absorbed 
the story’s last word. Some people have distinguished talents or traits 
which particularly endear them to us. One man may be very engaging 
of manner, while another person may be the personification of hos¬ 
pitality. Those traits stand out above all others in those particular 
individuals. It is by those traits that they are loved and respected. 

So it is with stories, based, as they may be, on a thousand different 
variations of emotions, characters, incidents, tones, colors, ideas, phil¬ 
osophies—illimitable. Each story, based upon some special emotion 
or idea, should be permeated with that emotion throughout; that 
emotion should stand out strongly through every major and even 
minor event of the plot as it progresses. It implies unity of mood 
throughout the story, unity of mood at the start, in the middle, and 
right up to the final reckoning. 

Author Must Have The Tone of His Story Constantly Before Him. 

It is necessary above all else that, in securing unity of impression, 
the author have the dominant tone of his story ever before him, so 
that every event and every situation be touched with it, and that every 
word set down be an indispensable link in the chain reaching from 
causation to effect. Of this effect of unity of impression to be 
wrought in the manuscript, Robert Louis Stevenson says: 

“A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has 
not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having 
conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be 
wrought out, he then combines such events as may best aid him in 
establishing this preconceived effect. If his initial sentence tend not 
to the out-bringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. 
In the whole composition there should be no word written to which 
the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one preestablished design.” 


Unity of Impression 


61 


The author should go over in his mind each incident of his story be¬ 
fore setting it to paper and determine if each one is impregnated with 
the spirit of a certain mood, a purposeful emotion. If not, then he must 
ruthlessly cast it aside; it certainly will not aid in securing a unity of 
impression; for, to bring about this desired effect, every event must be 
inevitable to the clear working out of the plot and must be in mood 
with all the rest of the plot-fabric. 

A master in the device of securing incomparable impressionistic 
qualities was Poe. In his story, “The Masque of the Red Death,” 
all bits of the setting, and even seemingly insignificant bits of the 
story have been considered for their harmony of mood. The mood is 
one of mystery and tragedy which comes to a band of thoughtless rev¬ 
ellers. The tone of the story is brought more sharply in contrast by 
the gayety of the party. Poe strikes the tone of death and tragedy 
in the very first sentence of the story. I will give passages from the 
story to illustrate how well Poe has the mood in hand and what ma¬ 
terials he utilizes to best bring it to the reader impressively. 

The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No 
pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its 
Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. 
There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then pro¬ 
fuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. * * * 

But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire¬ 
light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the 
blood-tinted panes was ghastly in the extreme, and produced 
so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, 
that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot 
within its precincts at all. 

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the 
western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung 
to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when 
the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour 
was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the 
clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and ex¬ 
ceeding musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, 
at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were 
constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to 
hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased 
their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole 
gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, 
it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more 
aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in 
confused reverie or meditation. * * * 

The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly 
to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the 
closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the 
cheat. * * * But the mummer had gone so far as to 

assume the type of the Red Death. * * * * * 

* * * And one by one dropped the revellers in the 

blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the 
despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony 


62 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the 
flame of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and 
the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. 

In Poe’s story, “The Fall of the House of Usher,” the unity of 
impression is wrought out in like manner. Every element of setting 
is permeated with the inextinguishable and gripping breath of the 
supernatural; from beginnig to end the whole story fairly reeks of it, 
and the reader cannot leave the story without carrying a singleness 
of impression. 

Why Enthusiasm is Essential. 

A prime requisite for the obtaining of unity of impression is that 
the writer be enthused with his materials; that is, be overjoyed with 
the prospect of writing a story of a certain type. Thus, a person may 
experience a keen delight in reading and writing of a courageous, 
generous, resourceful man who is involved in very strenuous and 
complicated happenings, who plays the part of worshipper to beautiful 
woman; whose stirring efforts are crowned with success after very 
persistent fighting and continuous combat with forces of evil; who, in 
fact, is the very type of “hero” so dear to the hearts of those who are 
charmed especially by the moving story of action. If the author 
delights in writing stories of incident, or stirring adventure, then he 
inevitably will approach his subject with a certain avidity to be at it 
and to start his characters off on their perilous voyages. And, through¬ 
out the whole narrative, he will deal with his characters and their 
troubles, their loves and their triumphs, in a tender, enthusiastic 
manner; he will be one with them in spirit and body; he will give him¬ 
self entirely into them; and, dominated by the one supreme purpose of 
injecting enspiriting and dashing contention into his story, he will 
have no end but one in view—to make his hero a hero above all others, 
to make his heroine admired and loved and feared for as no other ever 
has been. And, in so doing, he will forget to digress; he will have no 
desire to philosophize on some extraneous matter of small purpose to 
the ultimate aim of the story. Every incident, every bit of setting, 
of character, will be devised with the purpose of making the hero 
more heroic, of bringing out some trait, such as courage, so that when 
the story has been drawn to its conclusion the reader will know, 
without doubt or conscious thinking effort, that some particular emo¬ 
tion has been very decidedly aroused and that that emotion has been 
pleasurable. 

Another writer, however, will not wish to write adventure stories. 
He is not in spirit with a Stevenson, a Dumas, a Scott. If he should 
write an adventure story, no particular emotion would be aroused in 
the reader, for the writer himself would not be sufficiently possessed 
of any single dominant emotion to be brought out in the story, to 
impart anything of distinction to the story; it would be merely a 
stilted performance of puppets with no surging battles to fight, no 
great things to contest wholeheartedly for. 

But this same writer might have a desire for the character story. 
If so, in such a story would his desires best be displayed in unity of 
impression. He might have in view the reaction of some character 
to temptation as brought against a certain strong sense of duty—the 


Unity of Impression 


63 


temptation, or its indulgence, and the duty, running toward exactly 
different ends. The dominant tone of such a story would be the por¬ 
trayal of the hero’s struggle with self. 

And so on. From which it is clearly seen that before unity of 
impression may successfully be attained, the writer must be informed 
unmistakably of just what tone he wishes to render, and this may be 
determined by the kind of story to be written, together with the effect 
to be accomplished. 

The Reader s Acceptance of the Author s Dominant Tone . 

Some people’s dreams are as real as the things that make up their 
every-day life. Even their imaginings and fancies possess an air of 
reality, which, when viewed in retrospect, may seem to be recollections 
of actual experiences. Such people will write admirable stories drawn 
entirely from the imagination. They will believe in their stories; 
they will give themselves up without reserve to their elaboration; the 
story will possess, then, a tone of sincerity and unity of impression. 

Take, for example, the ghost story; the beginner is advised against 
writing of the supernatural or the mysterious if he is too out-and-out 
a disbeliever in anything which smacks of the unreal; if he cannot be 
tolerant of the supernatural even for amusement’s sake. For such a 
person to write a ghost story would bear an analogy to the mathe¬ 
matician touching his figures with an element of romance^ He could 
not do so and retain confidence in his subject. I speak of this with 
regard especially to the ghost story, for the reason that just exactly 
the same error has been made in the past. Anne Radcliff in her novel, 
“The Castle of Otronto,” attempts to explain the mysterious sights 
and sounds which impart such a delightful atmosphere of mystery and 
expectancy to most of her books, by resorting to the discovery of some 
mechanical device that caused the noises and the strange sights. The 
effect is not to be mistaken. Very evidently the author did not think 
that the reader would care to accept the strange events of her story 
without the proverbial grain of salt; yet, in administering the salt she 
has spoiled the effect of the story entirely. A writer anxious to give 
his story unity of impression would have left the cause of the mystery 
unexplained in such a disappointing and prosaic fashion. 

The average reader dislikes exceedingly to be disappointed when he 
has taken it for granted he is to be pleased. And, if a certain person¬ 
age of a story is especially pleasing to the reader, if this person’s 
conduct and nature is of such calibre as to endear him more and more 
to the reader as the story progresses, then the reader is going to be a 
discomfited and enraged individual indeed if affairs turn out badly 
for the beloved. Hence arises this rule: If the expectations are 
aroused in a certain direction, that direction must be maintained un- 
deviatingly throughout. If the story is to be one of light and airy 
romance, it must not end in tragedy; while, on the other hand, if 
the story is to be one of melancholy, it must not possess too prominent 
and disquieting strains of joyous humor, for then the contrast will be 
too strongly sketched and the reader will not know what effect was to 
be rendered. 

The author, then, from the first sentence, if necessary, must strike 
the dominant tone and emotion of his story, just as Shakespeare did 


64 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


in Hamlet and in all the rest of his plays. Throughout some run the 
deep, persistent tones of tragedy, offset only here and there with swift, 
expert, running touches, by bits of appropriate contrast, yet not suffi¬ 
cient to detract or throw the reader from the pervading tone. An¬ 
other sketches the humorous character of an alehouse, say the laugh¬ 
able Falstaff; and, in such a one, Shakespeare does not make the mistake 
of startling the reader by introducing incongruous tones. 

Every Story Must Be Distinctive. 

It will be well to recall to the prospective writer at just this point 
a certain state of mind peculiar to the average reader. The reader, as 
a rule, is a very generous sort of person; if he votes to read an impossi¬ 
ble tale of romance, of fantasy or of adventure, he is ready heart and 
soul for the very worst the author is able to do with his characters, 
provided, of course, that the characters remain true to type and do not 
perform out “of character” or as humans might be expected to conduct 
themselves. In the act of starting some particular story and going 
ahead with it, the reader tentatively agrees to accompany the author 
upon any cruise of fate, to whatsoever climes the story may carry him ; 
he is eagerly prepared for the highest flights of fancy, provided the 
reader strikes that tone from the outset and gives the reader assurance 
that the story is one of fancy and will not, without warning, change 
into a domestic tragedy. 

To bring out this point more strongly, let us compare two stories, 
both romantic in a general sort of way and both containing the element 
of love. We will consider “Aladdin’s Lamp,” from the Arabian 
Nights, and “The House Opposite,” a tale in dialogue by Anthony 
Hope. In the former production, the reader accepts the wonderful 
adventures of Aladdin as a matter of course. It is no matter of sur¬ 
prise to the reader, after he has been informed of the tone of the story, 
to be told that at the mere rubbing of the wonderful lamp Genii 
appeared to carry out the most wild demands of their master; we are 
prepared for all that comes and even take a delight in following 
around the hero. Nothing the hero could do or could have done to 
him would surprise us in the last, for we are momentarily anticipating 
some genii to appear and perform still greater feats. Nor do we lay 
the story aside, having finished its perusal after an hour of pleasurable 
emotions, with any feeling of disgust or unbelief. Of course, we do 
not imagine for an instant that any such miracles could take place or 
ever did. Yet we admitted, during the actual reading, that they 
might, and in that silent agreement with the author did we read his 
production. 

In the other production, “The House Opposite,” is brought out a 
little characteristic peculiar to most people: that of forgetting the 
romance of their earlier days after they have become settled down to 
the staid humdrum of house and home. This story deals very de¬ 
lightfully, very humanly, in a manner very true to life, with just this 
trait of character. The action is unusually trivial. A young lady 
merely slips out of her boarding school and meets by chance a young 
man who resides in “The House Opposite,” a young man she has 
seen before and often silently admired. The two go to a soda fountain 
where the heroine spends a shilling given her to attend a certain lec- 


Unity of Impression 


65 


ture. Everything is very commonplace, very plausible, very like 
happenings that might and doubtless do occur many times during the 
lifetime of every individual. The tone throughout is quiet, humorous 
and romantic. 

Now consider in what a stupefied condition the reader would be 
hurled if, during the stroll of the two young people down the street 
in the direction of the soda fountain, there should have appeared three 
horrible, distorted genii who should have demanded that some incredi¬ 
ble feat be demanded of them to perform. Would the reader accept 
it; would he be likely to go on with the story? If he did, it would be 
with the intention of seeing just what was the matter with the author 
and of ascertaining if further marks of insanity could be discovered. 

The Importance of Setting in Unity of Impression. 

Of inestimable importance in imparting unity of impression and 
emphasizing the key of the story is setting. For stories of action or 
incident, there is no better setting than the deep forest, the raging 
flood, the sea, the city’s streets in the dead of night, the battlefield, 
and so on. And for stories of romance the appropriate background 
is the dance, perfumes, flowers, moonlit evenings, gardens, the female 
in distress, preferably in some suggestive and stirring place, the lake 
steamer, the canoe and so on in unlimited variation. All such devices 
of setting tend to give the impression of love, of the tender heart, of 
susceptible emotions, for it is through our senses that we are most 
visibly effected. We all have heard, doubtless many of us have felt, 
the subtle influence of the moon on a summer’s balmy evening. It is 
for these reasons that the harmonized elements of setting are so 
invaluable. The reader can be made to accept the tone of a story far 
more readily when there exists no incongruous elements of setting, when 
the author has not been so careless as to lay his tale of romance in too 
uninviting and meaningless a location. Just consider for a moment 
how the story of mystery, of dark and unfathomable doings, can be 
strengthened in suspense and emotional height by the introduction 
of the moaning wind, the dashing waves, the swishing rain, the sighing 
of the trees, and the like. But it is largely the story of adventure and 
the story of setting that will require the greatest selection of details 
for bringing out the unity of impression most effectively. A story of 
character will not require great attention to setting, only in so far as 
character is effected by environment. And a story of idea will demand 
still less adherence to strict selection of striking and harmonious 
setting effects for the purpose of bringing out more strikingly the 
author’s supreme purpose. ^^ 

It will be seen from the foregoing that unity of impression accupies 
a very important niche in the realm of story writing. Unity of im¬ 
pression very often is the thing that decides for or against a story’s 
acceptance. One story may be a splendid model of cleverly devised 
and constructed plot complication, but an editor on reading it may not 
be particularly impressed; it will not remain fixed in his mind; rather, 
he will promptly forget it and the writer will wonder why his story 
did not get by. Another story, simple in plot and dealing with com¬ 
monplace incidents, may be so permeated and suffused with the 
author’s all-prevalent themes, be so impregnated with the author’s 


66 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


enthusiastic treatment of his main, dominant, underlying purpose and 
idea, contain so much of charm because of its harmony of tone, that 
the editor instantly and avidly will accept it. 

The patient author, therefore, will determine well beforehand just 
what impression he desires to create in the reader’s mind. And, as it 
must be the very emotion, together with its application to the human 
side of life as exampled in the story, that the author has in his own 
mind, it is inevitable that the reader should receive exactly the same 
meaning, the identical spirit of the theme; for the reader gets just 
what the writer gives, so much and no more. As much art and as 
much feeling as a story contains, just that proportion of delight does 
the reader experience. Story writing is an excellent mirror for the 
reader to look into the author’s heart and read there of the power of 
his emotions and the sincerity of his convictions. The sea receives 
as much volume of water as comes to it from the streams which flow 
down to meet it; the reader obtains as much sense, as exact a quantity 
of emotion, of enthusiasm, as the author is able or sees fit to inject 
into his story. The writer will do well to bear this truth firmly in 
mind. If he has assimilated all the rules of story writing and follows 
out the various injunctions given in this volume, yet his work persists 
in returning, then he has only himself to blame. It is only because 
the charm of his subject has not seized him with sufficient power for 
him to impart strong emotion, dynamic play of forces, delicacy of 
touch and sincerity of tone to his work. 

In this, as in all phases of story writing, we advise the author again 
in that very trite, but sensible way, to read the master writers for 
shining models of unity of impression. We especially recommend the 
stories of Edgar Allen Poe, Hawthorne, De Maupassant, Stevenson 
and Kipling. Their works are especially prominent because of the 
harmony of tone of their stories. This probably is so because these 
authors recognized the value of unity of impression, strove after it 
and attained it. And, without a particle of doubt, it is due in main 
to unity of impression that so many of their stories have charm and 
proportion, a single dominant emotion brought out fittingly at every 
forward step of the story. 


Chapter XII 


HOW TO CHOOSE AN APPROPRIATE TITLE 

With regard to the point of time at which a title may most ju¬ 
diciously be chosen, whether before or after the story has been written, 
no absolute rule can be fixed. Some writers find they can decide with 
greater facility upon the best title for their particular script after all 
the constituents of the plot have been grounded firmly in their minds. 
The theme then shines out with greater meaning—luminous, apparent, 
exact. Or, again, the very uniqueness of the situation forming the 
main interest of the story may be so unmistakable in the concrete 
terms which explain it, that the proper title will come readily and 
unbidden to the pen. Still again, the title may sum up in a well- 
considered phrase the thematic importance and pith of the plot, though 
at the same time the cleverness of word arrangement and the signifi¬ 
cance of the words selected should portent a far different treatment 
of the theme than was ever before attempted. 

There even are people, places, phrases and ideas who and which, in 
themselves, suggest excellent titles, hence it may be said that the title 
itself may often prove the foundation of a story. Consider what a 
multitude of suggestions tumble forth at the mention of the title, 
“The Man Without A Country,” or “The House of Offense.” Give 
either one of these titles to any number of persons who never had seen 
the stories to which they pertain, and it would not be exaggeration to 
say that not a single one would interpret the title exactly the same as 
the other. 

There are several reasons why great caution should be exercised in 
the choice of the title. Chief among them is the effect, good or bad, 
the title is bound to have upon the editor; even though the reader 
never looked at the title of the story he intended reading, if only to 
impress the editor it would be well worth the beginner’s time to labor 
assiduously until he had found the exact title to fit his particular 
production, one that would bring out the plot’s crux, its big appeal, in 
the most startling, yet not sensational, manner. Editors and editorial 
readers are human just as the rest of us. If a manuscript comes before 
their attention bearing a title that means little or nothing, which 
brings up no definite mental picture in the mind and possesses no 
conciseness of aim, then they are very apt to cast the story in the pile 
with the rest of the rejected. The editor argues in this manner: 
Surely, if the writer has not enough perspicacity to devise a new, catchy 
title, then it would be a waste of time to wade through his stuff; nine 
chances out of ten the plot is just as uninteresting as the title. And 
such is the truth of affairs. Set before an editor a manuscript that 
possesses a heading guaranteed to make him gasp for breath by reason 
of its novelty and appropriateness—and the manuscript is half sold! 
The editor’s interest has been aroused, his favor has been gained, he is 
predisposed toward th story, and will read it in a broad, indulgent, 


68 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


receptive frame of mind; and, if there exists in his mind any doubt 
concerning the salability of the production, he may even, and kindly, 
suggest changes to be made, or buy the script outright and perform 
them himself. 

The good title possesses several essential requisites. It should be 
short, apt, original, specific, compelling. The long title usualy tells 
too much and is too cumbersome. It should be terse, meaty, epi- 
grammic, easily remembered. Perhaps the greatest requirement of the 
title, though, is that it be original. Take the average person who is 
an extensive reader of the popular magazines. What is the story 
he usually decides to read ? What factor does he allow to bear the 
greatest weight in his selection of his evening’s enjoyment? Let the 
beginner consider his own experience as a reader. Has it not been 
his custom to run a finger down the table of contents and choose that 
story which, by its title, holds promise of having the quickest action, 
the most original and unique situations? Most assuredly. After all, 
the title is merely a device to tickle our curiosity. We all are seekers 
after novelty, excitement, sensation or the intensely emotional; conse¬ 
quently, if any title cleverly intimates that the story for which it serves 
as ambassador has plenty of these heart-gripping elements in its un¬ 
folding, we areyery apt to read it. 

In addition to originality, the correct title should be specific, as 
opposed to general. The reader wishes to have some hint concerning 
the character of the story before he reads it, for few people plunge 
blindly through the contents of a magazine. Surely no one could 
obtain such intimation from a title so general as “His Reformation.” 
Such a title conveys only one definite idea: that somewhere, somehow 
in the course of the story, someone is reformed. The ordinary indi¬ 
vidual is not sufficiently desirous of reading about reformation in 
general and in such indefinite guise, to go ahead with the story. 
Reformations are of a thousand different hues and possibilities; they 
might take place in any corner of the globe and be enacted under an 
unlimited diversity of conditions. Such a title, then, is as general as 
life itself and the abstract qualities which compose life. The story 
with “His Reformation” as the title might contain the element of love; 
in that case the title “Love” would apply just as well as the other. 
Indeed, it might apply better, for the reformation could be brought 
about by a man’s love for a good woman. In that event it would be 
the part of the author to express in a single, short phrase the main 
peculiarity of just how the woman helped or inspired the man to 
reform. The writer is then approaching the center of the story’s 
difference and claim to originality, the point wherein lies the story’s 
distinguishable freshness. 

The method of taking the title from the name of the chief character 
has long since gone out of style, not so greatly with novels as with the 
short story. So many novels, but especially those of the past century, 
were studies of the gradual unfolding of character; so the title could, 
with some show of reasonableness, be the name of the main character. 
In retrospect the title was specific because the character whose name 
it was, held the main center of interest throughout the novel; the 
reader had obtained a unified impression of one main character, pre- 


How to Choose an Appropriate Title 


69 


dominant above all others; so the title seemingly was applicable. It 
lacked, however, any power of capturing the prospective reader’s in¬ 
terest, and, in these days, when so many thousands of short stories 
are being published, there naturally must exist among authors quite 
strenuous effort to outdo all others in the freshness of their titles—in 
the appeal they carry. Consequently, while they were prevalent in 
the past, the writer of short stories will do well to avoid such unin¬ 
teresting titles as: “Marjorie Daw,” “Romola,” “Tom Jones,” 
“Ligeia,” “Schlemihl,” “Amos Barton,” and so on. 

Akin to the title giving the name of the chief personage is the title 
in which the hero’s or heroine’s name is coupled with some descriptive 
term, intimating the exact situation in which the hero becomes in¬ 
volved—some peculiarity which singles him out for especial attention, 
the place where the main events of the plot occur, and so on. Examples 
of the adjective-name title are, “Black Silas” and “The Patient 
Griselda.” Of the titles having the chief character’s name coupled 
with the main situation of the story are: “Peter Rugg, The Missing 
Man,” “The Shyness of Shorty,” “The Americanization of Roll- 
Down Joe,” “The Madness of Philip” and “The Ordination of John 
Fairmeadow.” 

In many stories, chiefly those of setting, the titles are chosen from 
certain places, or their peculiarities, in which the action occurs. Of 
such, are: “The House on the Beach,” “The Mystery of Witchface 
Mountain,” “The House of a Thousand Candles,” “Up the Coolly” 
and “The Great Stone Face.” 

Especially effective are those titles that are the names of concrete 
objects contained in the stories, objects that take an all-important part 
in the working out of the complication. The more common this con¬ 
crete object is, the more familiar people are with its nature, the more 
likely they are to remember the story it heads, for the reason that the 
story and the concrete object, imaged firmly on the mind, remain 
irrevocably associated. Examples of such titles are: “The Monkey’s 
Paw,” “The Mask,” “The Scarlet Letter,” “The Piece of String,” 
“The Black Cat,” “The Turquoise Cup,” “An Extra Blanket” and 
“The Black Pearl.” 

Lastly in this category of titles come those based upon an idea, 
preferably the theme of the story. Examples of such are: “Where 
Love Is, There God Is Also,” “The Lost Word,” “The Other Wise 
Man,” “The Man Without A Country,” “The Call of the Wild” 
and “The Law of His Nature.” 

We will treat here very briefly the enigmatical title; the title which 
is so very puzzling, yet withal so very inviting; which seems contra¬ 
dictory of its very self, as “The Living Dead Man,” yet suggesting 
a very engaging story. The enigmatical title is excellent in the hands 
of the expert; but, if the amateur dallies with it, his titles are more 
likely to be meaningless, a mere jumble of words; for this sort of 
title must be written with several aims in view: it must conceal 
effectively the story’s main peculiarity, it must be very interesting, and 
must meet all the other requirements of the title with regard to 
length, etc. Examples of such titles are: “They,” “The Man Who 


70 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Was,” “The Suicide Club,” “Pigs Is Pigs,” and “After He Was 
Dead.” 

He will be a wise author, too, who proportions his title to the 
kind and amount of interest in his story. Consider how disappointed 
and outraged a reader would be if drawn to read a quiet little char¬ 
acter sketch, or a story of setting, by reason of a very inviting, almost 
sensational, title, which would have been an excellent caption for a 
blood and thunder tale, but very much out of place as title for a 
character story. The writer’s title, then, should arouse no more 
pleasurable anticipation than the author comfortabjy can satisfy 
through the telling of his story. 

As an exercise in choosing interesting and appropriate titles, the 
reader should reflect on the aptness of the title after he has read a 
story. Let him study the theme, then ask himself what he would 
have named the story. In writing his stories, too, the beginner should 
choose not one title merely, but many of them; then he may choose 
the best of all. 


Chapter XIII 


STORIES OF MYSTERY 
The Detective Story . 

Many of the readers of this book will be especially fitted to write 
detective stories, stories involving the untying of a knot that seemingly 
has worked itself into a helpless jumble of strands leading nowhere 
and incapable of any sensible solution. For their benefit we are ap¬ 
pending an analysis of the detective story, and pointing out just where 
it differs, in mechanism, from other stories. 

As the reader doubtless will recall by casting his mind back over 
the many detective stories he has read, this type of story follows the 
principle of ratiocination, or the deductive method, that procedure of 
reasoning which considers certain elements at hand and from them 
forms an opinion, or solves some puzzling situation. Therefore, the 
usual detective story starts off with a deep puzzle. A man has been 
murdered, a young girl has disappeared, the family jewels have dis¬ 
solved, seemingly into mid-air, important diplomatic papers have been 
spirited away. The complication to be solved is set forth in the first 
few paragraphs; the remainder of the story concerns itself solely with 
the method of finding out why, who and where; it consists of resolving 
the complication to a sensible conclusion. 

The more unusual the theft, the more bizarre the disappearance, 
the more meaningless the murder, the greater the reader’s anxiety 
and eagerness to follow the mode of procedure by which the mystery 
is explained. Suppose a man is found murdered in his apartments 
and it is known that he had not an enemy in the world; we will 
assume he possesses no great amount of wealth or abilities which might 
make him a source of envy to any individual, and that he has always 
been disposed to sacrifice himself for the comfort of others. The 
problem is: who killed the man and for what reason was the crime 
committed? There are absolutely no tangible reasons, no visible 
signs of a struggle, no slightest clue to work upon; the most imagina¬ 
tive fail to conjecture a plausible reason why this particular man 
should have been struck down. 

When the mystery is accentuated in this manner, when the crime 
consummated has no plausible motive to actuate it, then the reader’s 
curiosity is very apt to be piqued to an extreme degree. The greater 
the mystery to be solved, the greater will be the reader’s fervor in 
following the method of the individual who attempts to find the 
solution. 

The author, however, must not commit the mistake of starting off 
with a very promising mystery to be solved and then allow the de¬ 
tective to triumph by any ordinary or un-heroic means. The pleasure 
that the reader derives from the detective story rests largely in the 
enthralling adventures, chases and clashes the detective falls into, the 
setbacks, seemingly unsurmountable, that he comes face to face with, 


72 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


and the very ingenious methods he resorts to for a solution of the 
problem. 

In some detective stories, the conclusion has not been reached even 
after the criminal is apprehended, for not yet do we know all the 
details of his capture and the brilliant maneuver of the detective in 
trapping his victim is not clearly revealed to us. Hence, the detective 
must tell, usually in his own words, as a conversation to a friend or 
accomplice, the manner in which he finally seized the criminal. Other 
stories of the detective variety are concluded immediately upon the 
confession or capture of the criminal or criminals, for the method by 
which the hero solved the mystery is explained step by step just as it 
occurred. 

It will be wise, occasionally, to allow the reader to get a look ahead 
into the story so that he will realize faintly just what is coming before 
the author allows the detective himself to know. To reveal some 
coming movement of your plot to a reader in this manner is very com¬ 
plimentary; the reader pats himself on the back for being more clever 
than the detective himself. This device is useful because it puts the 
reader in a receptive and kindly mood toward the author. You see, 
the reader himself is taking an active, positive part in your story just 
as much as the hero; hence, the former should be allowed the liberty, 
every now and anon, of doing a little detective work himself and of 
flattering himself that he is a wee bit wiser, a trifle more profound 
and penetrating, than the detective. And inasmuch as the individual 
reads the story to derive pleasure from it, why not? 

It must not be supposed, though, that all detective or mystery stories 
have criminals to be run down, or that a man found dead has been 
killed by some human agency. The detective story based upon some 
accident, upon the scientific, or upon a unique move of fate, has been 
in vogue for some time and countless numbers of them, excellently 
and plausibly presented, too, have been published. A man may be 
killed in a multitude of ways, the author must remember; any agency 
that will deprive a person of breath or of food or other means of exist¬ 
ence, takes his life. A character might be killed by the agency of 
some gas, generated in some odd manner and disappearing almost im¬ 
mediately after the character’s demise. 

All the criminal characters of the detective story need not be repre¬ 
hensible, vile, loathsome, dirty, atrophied individuals, embodying in 
their appearance the evils which they seem to delight in. The more 
intellectual and innocent in appearance the criminal, the more educated 
and faultless in conduct, the greater will be the conflict between the 
two forces involved: one to keep the mystery unsolved and to prevent 
the approach of just punishment, the other to ferret out the criminal 
and triumph over the latter’s fabrication of evil. 

The author might do well to study several representative detective 
stories, especially those of such writers as Conan Doyle, Arthur B. 
Reeve, Anna Katherine Green and Edgar A. Poe. The last author 
named presents the mystery of his story, “The Mystery of Marie 
Roget,” thusly: 

This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in 
the Rue Morgue. Marie was the only daughter of the widow 


Stories of Mystery 


73 


Estelle Roget. The father had died during the child’s in¬ 
fancy, and from the period of his death, until within eighteen 
months before the assassination which forms the subject of 
our narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together 
in the Rue Pavee Saint Andree; Madame there keeping a 
pension, assisted by Marie. Affairs went on thus until the 
latter had attained her twenty-second year, when her great 
beauty attracted the notice of a perfumer, who occupied one 
of the shops in the basement of the Palais Royal, and whose 
custom lay, chiefly, among the desperate adventurers infesting 
that neighborhood. Monsieur Le Blanc was not unaware of 
the advantages to be derived from the attendance of the fair 
Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal proposals were ac¬ 
cepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more 
of hesitation by Madame. 

The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and 
his rooms soon became notorious through the charms of the 
sprightly grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, 
when her admirers were thrown into confusion by her sudden 
disappearance from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was un¬ 
able to account for her absence, and Madame Roget was dis¬ 
tracted with anxiety and terror. The public papers immedi¬ 
ately took up the theme, and the police were upon the point 
of making serious investigations, when, one fine morning, 
after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health, but with a 
somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance at her usual 
counter in the perfumery. All inquiry, except that of a 
private character was, of course, immediately hushed. Mon¬ 
sieur Le Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, 
with Madame, replied to all questions, that the last week 
had been spent at the house of a relation in the country. Thus 
the affair died away, and was generally forgotten; for the 
girl, ostensibly to relieve herself from the impertinence of 
curiosity, soon bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and sought 
the shelter of her mother’s residence in Rue Pavee Saint 
Andree. 

It was about five months after this return home, that her 
friends were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the 
second time. Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of 
her. On the fourth, her corpse was found floating in the 
Seine, near the shore which is opposite the Quartier of the 
Rue Saint Andrees, and at a point not very far distant from 
the secluded neighborhood of the Barriere du Roule. 

The Supernatural, or Horror Story. 

In the telling of the story of the supernatural, a device is involved 
which, if it be not taken into account, will leave the author’s “ghost” 
story lusterless. This device is that of making all the mystery, the 
causation of the horror, an “unknown” quantity, a thing of Doubt. 
The reader must not be allowed to catch a view of the thing from 
which springs the horror of the story, else all suspense will collapse 
with great dispatch. Unless the author is very clever indeed he will 


74 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


not be able to explain away an anachronism of Nature which he actu¬ 
ally allows to appear before the eyes of several people. Rather he 
must leave his ghosts, his* strange noises, his weird wailing and gnash¬ 
ing of teeth, to dark, empty chambers where gruesome murders have 
been perpetrated, to dank, winding cellars and underground chambers, 
whispering forests, eerie moors, or to mysterious deserted battlements 
of partly dismantled castles, their proper breeding places. But the 
illusion of suspense and horror is broken immediately the reader 
KNOWS just what it is that causes the furori of terrible emotions on 
the part of the characters, and, incidentally, the reader himself. The 
reader may know eventually just what the mystery is, but that is the 
end of the story; after he does know, he is no longer interested in 
that particular story, for his curiosity has been fully quenched. 

Some horror stories reach their conclusion without the Unknown 
being seen or explained; the interest lies wholly in the fact that the 
hero or heroine escaped the loathsome influence of the terror, or 
braved its presence for one ever-to-be-remembered hour. The hero 
may look into the dark chamber and his fingers may clutch spasmod¬ 
ically at the thin air, his features may blanch slowly and his very blood 
may seem to congeal, yet the true form of the unspeakable, if it have 
any, must remain,, a mystery to the reader. The main personage of 
the story may be so horrified by the spectacle, or the cold hand that 
touches his face, or the terrifying events which occur to him, that he 
is unable to tell what caused them, even if he knew, and, by this 
inability to articulate his experiences, will the suspense of the story 
be maintained. 

The master of the horror story is Poe. By a close scrutiny of his 
mystery stories, the student will learn much of the method employed 
in effectively devising and building up the materials of the horror 
story. 


Chapter XIV' 


YOUR OWN LIFE IN YOUR WRITING 

Writers should not tell of things about which they know little or 
nothing! Don’t write of a foreign country if you have never been 
there, or if you are not an omnivorous reader of the customs, history 
and atmosphere of those particular parts. Lew Wallace, author of 
“Ben Hur,” never saw the Holy Land previous to writing his book 
dealing with the scenes of Palestine. That his book, however, is 
faultlessly true in every detail is due to the fact that he studied for 
years the most authoritative documents, parchments and books. He 
delved into the most obscure sources; he was determined to fix in his 
mind as firm a picture of the manners and spirit of the Holy Land as 
if he had been indigenous to that country. George Eliot is said to 
have read three hundred books concerning past Italian life before 
starting “Romola.” 

So it has been with hundreds of other writers. Edgar Allan Poe 
never made a balloon ascension, but, in his short story, “Hans Pfaal,” 
he bases his plot on specific elements, and lets not his pen be moved by 
such idle breezes as moved the gas bag of the hero. He took into 
consideration every principle by which the upper stratum of our 
atmosphere is supposed to be made up; he argued sensibly and logically, 
though rather fantastically, and when the reader puts down the book 
he is convinced that Poe dealt with the scientific phases of the story 
in admirable fashion. What made Bobby Burns so famous ? It is not 
his Scottish brogue, though that does have a twang that tickles. It is 
not his choice of words, though in that respect he is especially strong. 
Rather it is because he broke away from the stereotyped custom of his 
time, which custom was to write of a fountain, a sunset, or a falls. He 
wrote of the things that made up his daily life, of his experiences in 
the meadows, while plowing or roaming the fields and woods; he 
wrote of the little denizens of the field, of the simple little blossoms 
which held hidden meanings for him, of the drunken brawls in which 
he took so large a part, of his conquests of his lady loves. Burns 
wrote poetry, ’tis true, but the principle is the same, for it can be 
applied in just this fashion to the works of Jane Austen, who rarely 
stepped over the limits of her own village and had to draw for her 
fund of knowledge from her readiness to observe the people who 
visited at her home, so many of whom make up the characters of her 
books. 

So, you see, it is not of the foreign climes we should write, unless 
we are particularly fitted to do so. Remember, our writing is a 
hundred times more facile, racy and appealing when we tell of those 
things which are part and parcel of us, because in writing of things 
close to our hearts we are very apt to deal more familiarly, more 
enthusiastically, more sympathetically. Our work, our home, and the 
people we know, the people and the things we have seen and on which 


76 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


we have passed our observations should be the foundations on which 
we raise our efforts. The actions of the characters of a story may 
and should be fiction, but let the influences that move the characters 
be true to life and fortified and restricted by reason, observation and a 
philosophy of life. Without the check of reason, imagination degen¬ 
erates into fancy. 

The author is strongly urged to write of those things that are his 
hobby, his delight in life, and weave around them the action of his 
story. Sir Walter Scott received his inspiration in writing from the 
border tales of old Scotland, tales that were crooned to him on the 
knee of his old nurse. They made vivid pictures in his mind, so a 
very large portion of his books contain more or less reference to those 
early impressions. 

Perhaps one of the best ways to inject the breath of life into your 
work is to employ as the underlying idea of your plot some incident 
that has taken a large part in your own life and existence, something 
that has revolutionized your viewpoint on life and actually placed 
you in a new sphere of thought. Look back upon your life, go over 
the years carefully and find out those things that have made each year 
a thing of wonder and whose accumulative effect have made a different 
person out of you. Then you will be writing of things which interest 
us all, because we cannot think of you as far different from the rest 
of us. 

The Three Processes Of Refining Your Story After 
The First Rough Draft Has Been Made. 

Before dealing with the revision of the story, I will take up first its 
actual writing. First of all, the efficient and systematic, the sure and 
careful, author will make out an outline of his plot. All important 
events, even of minor value, will be included in their natural order. 
In pursuance of this regular outline form, a series of minor crises will 
show distinctly their relation to each other, how crisis three dovetails 
neatly into crisis two on one end and crisis four on the other. 

The story itself, a matter of from two to five or six thousand words, 
should be written at two, never more than three, sittings. If the 
author has every detail of his story firmly impressed in his mind, and, 
if his outline is in good working order, there is no reason why he 
should not write a couple of thousand words at one sitting. The 
benefit to be derived from such a concentration of effort is manifest. 
An invaluable totality of effect, with a smoothness and logic of move¬ 
ment, is attained in this fashion; otherwise, these indispensable quali¬ 
ties might be lacking. Thus, the author might proceed as far as the 
last crisis leading to the climax, then tire out. On returning to his 
work the following day, he might not be able to launch into the spirit 
of the story, especially at the emotional height it had attained just 
before he broke off his writing the day before. In such a case, the 
climax would fall flat, lack point and thrill. 

Thereby follows the suggestion: scribble off the first draft of your 
story as rapidly as possible. Adhere to your outline, but do not en¬ 
deavor as you go on to keep all the rules of correct writing always 
before you. Simply write your story as the outline unrolls to your 


Your Own Life in Your Writing 


77 


pen each succeeding incident; tell the story in your own words without 
a thought of style or effect. Become as interested as possible in the 
movements of your characters, incorporate yourself wholly into the 
texture of the story as you write it. Do not worry about rules or 
technicalities. Leave them to the polishing process, of which we will 
now speak. 

After the first rough draft of the story has been completed, the 
story should be viewed with regard to the unity of impression obtained. 
This would include the injection into the story of the elements treated 
under the chapter heading, “Unity of Impression.” The story must 
be predominantly adventure, character, setting or otherwise, as the 
case may be. But the totality of effect gained must be as clearly dis¬ 
tinguishable as the difference between Gothic and Moorish archi¬ 
tecture. 

After the writer has carefully revised his work with regard to unity 
of impression, the story should be very closely scrutinized for all alloys 
of insincerity and lack-lustre. The two greatest wrongs the story plot 
can commit are those of being insincere and lacking in suspense. If 
the writer’s heart is not in his work, he cannot write sincerely; if he 
knows or cares little of what he attempts to tell others, his w T ords 
will not ring true, will not seem to be based on actuality. He must, 
then, if his story lacks sincerity of emotion, inject the unadulterated 
product and no imitation, for the reader refuses to accept substitutes. 
He must, if at first tempted to write of the idiosyncracies of society . 
folk, though he may know little of their real thoughts, motives and 
characterizations, resolve to deal entirely with more familiar and 
simpler folk. 

As to suspense, the arousing of exaggerated anxiety concerning the 
outcome of certain complications can best be brought about by the 
addition of still more opposition. This does not mean that the story 
should be made longer, but simply that the bitter struggle of the hero 
to attain his goal should be magnified more often by reverses and 
heart-rending repulses. If it is necessary to add other material, rather 
than lengthen the story, the writer should cull out some of the incidents 
leading up to the climax or to the main opposition. By doing this and 
strengthening the opposition or the suspense, he succeeds in plunging 
into the story precipitately, just as the reader most fervently wants 
him to. 

The last process of revision will include the elimination of all re¬ 
dundancies of whatever character. This culling of the superfluous 
will apply to all parts of the story—to the beginning, description, expo¬ 
sition, dialogue, ending, characterization, and so on. For there are 
certain characters for whom the writer will have especial fancy and 
regard. The writer will be so taken up with their personality that, 
all unconsciously, he will too greatly stress their part in the story, and 
what started off as a story of action may suddenly shift into one of 
character. The same applies to setting and to ideas. Some writers 
will fall into the habit of preaching to their readers; others will con¬ 
sider certain places in their script as excellent points at which to bring 
out certain opinions or illustrations that have always been more or 
less fascinating to them. But the writer must determine to be severely 


78 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


economical. He must weigh each incident carefully, asking himself 
if the story could proceed swiftly and clearly if it were eliminated. 
If its detachment from the story leaves no perceivable void in the 
action, then it would have deteriorated from the value of the story 
to have left it as it was. The writer, too, must as ruthlessly eradicate 
all phrases to which he leans kindly. He is apt to inject them on all 
occasions; they, by constant repetition, come in time to mean nothing. 

The careful consideration of all these elements in the revision of the 
manuscript will heighten its value and salability by many per cent. 

How To Refreshen Your Imagination. 

As has already been stated, trains of thought are started in the 
mind by the impression of sights, sounds, smells, and such, acting on 
the nerve centers which convey the records to their particular places 
in the brain. These impressions, when they arrive at their destination, 
excite to life other impressions close by. Thus a train of thoughts is 
aroused and thus is explained the sudden flow of ideas at the smell of a 
certain flower. The brain is a vast maze of associated ideas; the per¬ 
fume a wife used in the days of her courtship, when suddenly en¬ 
countered at a later day, will bring back pleasant memories to a 
husband. 

So an excellent way to stimulate the imagination is to keep the 
senses ever on the alert—to see all the beautiful things that life holds, 
the brilliantly-hued pansies, the modestly-gowned violets—to listen 
with intentness to all of Nature’s murmurings, and to interpret the 
erratic changes in the whine of the wind as we would interpret a cer¬ 
tain character by his moods. 

The Mental Tonics That Successful Writers Employ. 

Nearly all writers get their ideas under different circumstances. 
Balzac arose at midnight and took a long draught of the hottest, 
blackest and strongest coffee obtainable. “H. G. Wells,” says Tit- 
Bits, “is one of those fortunate individuals, who brim with ideas. His 
collection is so great that no pen could clothe them with stories in a 
life-time. He gets his ideas at night, and then brings them down to 
breakfast in the morning, where he dictates them to his secretary.” 
F. Marion Crawford got his ideas on foot. To think out a novel, 
he would often walk forty miles. The imagination of Stanley Wey- 
man gets warm and lubricated by the sound of running water; there¬ 
fore, he does his writing in a house-boat. Robert Hitchens’ thoughts 
do not begin to flow until he has his pen in hand. De Quincy wrote 
under the influence of opium, while Stevenson received a multitude 
of ideas for his stories from the coastline of Scotland. Frankly, how¬ 
ever, it is very doubtful whether any of this extraneous paraphernalia 
was absolutely necessary to assist these various writers in securing 
suitable ideas. I believe that they liked to live under such odd circum¬ 
stances and to indulge in such peculiarities. We all have desires for 
certain locations, positions, atmospheres, conditions, and so on. Conse¬ 
quently, if we are placed as near as possible in an ideal location our 
ideas are bound to apply more logically to the theme at hand, and we 
will write on in a harmonious, contented fashion. 


PART II 

THE NEW IRVING METHOD 
OF WRITING PHOTOPLAYS 





# 


Chapter I 


THE PHOTOPLAY DEFINED AND EXPLAINED 

Numerous attempts have been made to define the photoplay. Most 
of the definitions have been unsatisfactory, however, because ambigu¬ 
ous. The simplest definition possible is: a story told in pictured 
action instead of words. That is to say, a photoplay is a story told 
almost entirely in pantomime by actors, whose thoughts and motives 
are brought out by their actions. As a rule, it is necessary to assist 
the actors with some worded description thrown on the screen. This 
combination of action with a few words is a photoplay. 

All moving picture subjects are not photoplays. In many instances, 
moving pictures consist of a series of scenes exhibited for education or 
information. Witness the Burton Holmes Travelogues or the Pathe 
Weekly. Here there is no story to be told. Therefore, there is no 
photoplay, for the photoplay is the modern way of telling a story. 

The average magazine story often consists largely of description 
and conversation. Some of the best passages are almost entirely word- 
pictures without action. This is not photoplay material. The photo¬ 
play must be all action, because it appeals to the eye alone. We might 
define the photoplay, then, as a story of the eye. 

But it is best for the beginner to consider the photoplay as a story 
told in action instead of words. And this little word action should be 
kept constantly in mind; it plays an important part in photoplay 
writing. 

Why There Must Be Action In a Photoplay. 

In stage stories we see a character enter the scene and say: “It took 
me all of two hours to get here from my office. The streets were so 
crowded it was almost impossible to move. I had a terrible time.” 
Then he relates his experience. This all happens in one scene on 
the stage. But, in a photoplay, it would take several scenes to picture 
the same thing. We would see him leave his office, see him go down 
the street, follow him through it all, including even his arrival at the 
club. But, on his arrival there, he would not relate his past experi¬ 
ences, as in the play, but would proceed to carry out some new action. 

So it becomes plain that the one big requirement of the photoplay is 
action. In fact, the whole plot is told almost entirely in action. Occa¬ 
sionally, a few words of explanation—a few brief sentences, a tele¬ 
gram, a photograph—are thrown on the screen to explain some phase 
of the story not made clear by the action alone; but, in the main, 
action tells all. 

Let the reader think of the photoplay as a pictured story in which 
action, gestures, facial expression and elements of character replace 
the dialogue and description of word stories. The person who sees 
a photoplay must find it a simple matter to identify all characters, to 
know what type of people they are, just what they aim to accomplish, 
and whether they win or lose. He must thoroughly understand the 
plot entirely from what he sees the characters do, with very little 


82 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


explanatory matter. In fact, it might almost be said that a perfect 
photoplay should consist entirely of action; for, in perfect pantomime, 
words are not needed. Often, however, the printed matter thrown on 
the screen serves to heighten the artistic finish of the play; therefore, 
even though it be possible, it is not altogether desirable to omit all 
explanatory matter. 

The important thing for the new writer to remember is that, in 
photoplay writing, he must depend entirely upon his ability to make 
his characters act. Dialogue and description are the story writer’s 
tools. The photoplaywright must work with action. 

In the photoplay, we have the nearest approach to the perfect enter¬ 
tainment—that in which the individual is under no mental labor, not 
having to gain the thoughts of the author through words. On the 
contrary, the photoplay’s entire plot smoothly unfolds itself as if by 
magic before the spectator in the form of a continuous, easily-under¬ 
stood story, at times given added attraction, variety and strength 
through the written word. In story writing, the constant aim of the 
author is to bring up images in the mind of the reader. All of the 
author’s words must be arranged in such a clever manner that the 
reader becomes unaware of them and imagines that he is the actual 
actor in, or sple spectator of, the gripping events depicted. The 
ability to carry the reader away in this manner comes only through 
careful study. In the photoplay, the author does not encounter this 
difficulty. 

As previously stated, many stories are not suitable for photoplays. 
This is because they consist so largely of the abstract, description and 
word-pictures. They lack action, and action is the stuff photoplays 
are made of. Photoplay characters cannot dream of the past or of 
the future. They cannot be philosophers or witty conversationalists. 
They must act. They must do things. They must keep moving 
without an idle minute. 

But your characters should not run wild. A great many beginners 
imagine that, in order to have action, they must keep their characters 
constantly on the jump from one city to another, from America to 
Europe and back again, just to keep them frantically engaged. It 
seems childish to say this, but anyone in touch with new writers knows 
the necessity of warning them to keep the action of their characters 
confined to a limited area. There are two extremes of action. One 
in which the characters travel all over the world, or nearly so; the 
other in which they are confined to a single room. While it may be 
possible to write successful photoplays containing one or the other of 
these extremes, still it is not a desirable thing for the beginner to 
attempt. The new writer may well content himself with the happy 
medium. 

Don’t imagine, either, that action means events of a violent nature. 
It isn’t necessary to tear down buildings or destroy cities to secure 
action. It is possible to write innumerable interesting, entertaining 
plays around peaceful, quiet events. Moods, motives, thoughts, 
feelings—all may be expressed in the photoplay. Still there must be 
life, action, movement. 

In truth, the photoplay is a “moving” picture. 


Chapter II 


THE COMPONENT PARTS OF A PHOTOPLAY 

In all fiction, plot is one of the most important elements. Plot is 
the story itself. Without plot there is no story. But, in the photoplay, 
plot has even greater weight than in any other kind of writing. This 
is because the photoplay does not permit description or character 
drawing, as we know both in stories. Take plot from a photoplay and 
little remains. There is no action, for you cannot have action without 
cause and effect—without an orderly arrangement of incidents and 
situations reaching a climax—and this is the very essence of plot. 

Plot, then, is of paramount importance. Before you can interest 
an editor in a plot, however, you must have some way of presenting 
it to him—some clear, comprehensive, understandable form in which 
.to tell your story briefly and attractively. To do this in a thorough 
manner, the complete photoplay must be divided into four major parts 
or divisions. 

i. The Synopsis. 

The first division is called the synopsis. Here the writer outlines, 
in a comprehensive manner, all of the action in his plot. The synopsis 
is a general view of the story; an abstract or summary of the action; 
it tells the story in detailed, narrative form, without dialogue or useless 
description. 

In the synopsis, your characters are identified and mentioned by 
name, so that the editor knows who and how many they are. But, in 
addition to presenting your characters in the synopsis, you must also 
arrange them in order of their importance in the second major division 
of the photoplay, called the Cast of Characters. 

2. The Cast Of Characters. 

The cast of characters, or cast, as it is usually termed, is a list of all 
the people who appear in your play, together with a few brief words 
describing the main characteristics of the major characters. The 
characters should be arranged in the order of their importance, the 
main character coming first and the others following in an orderly 
manner. The cast should immediately follow the synopsis of your 
story. This completes the second main division of the photoplay 
script. 

It may be well to note here that the first and second divisions of 
the complete photoplay script—synopsis and cast—are all the writer 
sends to the producer when submitting his work for sale. 

J. The Scene-Plot. 

The third division is the scene-plot, which consists of a brief outline 
of the various scenes, or “sets,” used in your script. The scene-plot 
shows the editor or producer exactly how many different scenes are 
needed, how many different interior or exterior settings he must use, 
and how many scenes are to be photographed in each setting. The 
scene-plot is used only in the studio when the script is actually being 
produced. 


84 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


4. The Continuity, or Scenario. 

The fourth division of the complete photoplay script is the con¬ 
tinuity, or scenario, as it is frequently called. In the continuity, your 
plot is not told in narrative, as it is in the synopsis, but is worked out in 
action. That is, your plot, instead of being told by description, is 
outlined as a series of actions, just as it appears on the screen, together 
with all of the necessary reading matter, such as, letters, photographs, 
newspaper items, quotations, and the like. 

In other words, the continuity is a succession of scenes, exactly as 
they are worked out by the director, put into action by the characters, 
and photographed by the cameraman, together with all the titles and 
inserts appearing on the screen. 

So far as the beginner is concerned, he need concern himself only 
about two of the four parts indicated above: synopsis and cast. 
Editors prefer to receive manuscripts merely in detailed synopsis form, 
together with a cast. No continuity is wanted. It is desirable, how¬ 
ever, for the writer to acquaint himself with continuity writing so that 
he may have a comprehensive knowledge of what is possible in photo¬ 
play writing. Furthermore, if he masters the art of continuity writing, 
he will be equipped to accept a position as staff writer in any studio. 

Remember, then, that the manuscript submitted by a “free lance” 
consists of only two parts: 

I. Synopsis. 

II. Cast of Characters. 

And that the complete photoplay script, actually as produced in the 
studio, consists of four parts—two of which are written in the studio 
after the script has been purchased from its author: 

I. Synopsis. 

II. Cast of Characters. 

III. Scene-Plot. 

IV. Continuity, or Scenario. 


Chapter III 


THE PHOTOPLAY PLOT 

Before the actual writing of the four principal parts of the photo¬ 
play is described, it is desirable to get a thorough knowledge of just 
what constitutes a photoplay plot. This is desirable for the reason 
that the actual writing of a photoplay cannot begin until a plot is 
first worked out. Furthermore, plot-building is by far the most im¬ 
portant phase of photoplay writing. If you cannot build plots, you 
cannot write photoplays. 

What Constitutes a Photoplay Plot. 

A simple way to define and explain the function of plot is to say 
that plot portrays struggle in all of its phases. Struggle is the chief 
factor of plot. One character, or several characters for that matter, 
want something. They try to get it. Someone, or some thing, resists 
the efforts to obtain the thing desired. The delineation of these efforts 
—sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, here changing in plan, 
there surprising the antagonist—is said to be plot. 

The photoplay plot is life pictured on the screen. As every one 
knows, life is made up largely of struggle or conflict. Therefore, plot 
should be a record of struggle. That struggle may be a combat be¬ 
tween the forces of the individual and nature, as it is in so many of 
Victor Hugo’s novels. Here the hero or heroine is fighting against 
the forces of fate. Or the struggle may be between the moral forces 
of a single character. Thus in Stevenson’s “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” 
there is a struggle between the characteristics of the same individual. 
In this story, the struggle between the good and the bad becomes so 
powerful that the demon of bad and the angel of good are personified. 
In a recent film adaptation of a religious novel, the main character, 
a minister, is found struggling against his awakening conscience, 
which tells him to follow in His steps, to take up the sword against 
the evil forces of his conscience—a struggle only too long neglected. 
Again, the struggle may be between mere physical forces, as it is in so 
many of Jack London’s stories. Here the main character, a beast or a 
man, struggles against some hereditary enemy. In Robinson Crusoe 
we see man struggling against nature—the sea, for food, for shelter, 
against beast, cold and hunger. 

The photoplay plot, then, is a record of struggle, a history of con¬ 
flict—man’s struggle with ng fure . man against man , man against 
s ociet y, man against tem ptatio ns. This is really life itself. Every 
great book or work of the ages deals largely with conflict. Even the 
Bible is a history of struggle—the struggle of right against wrong. 
All life is a conflict—never ending. 

There cannot be plot unless there are complications, which must 
be worked out and fully cleared away before the story ends. Many 
beginners have the idea that a mere series of events, closely connected 
perhaps, but not involving any change, or crisis, in the lives of the 


86 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


characters, is plot. Not so. A mere chain of events does not make 
plot. Suppose Frank, our hero, joins the Aviation Corps, goes to 
France, works hard, becomes a great birdman, wins praise, and re¬ 
turns home. Is this plot? Most assuredly not, although it contains 
excellent plot material. But—let Frank meet an old enemy in 
France! Ah, at once we have plot! Complications arise, a big crisis 
may occur—in short, there approaches STRUGGLE, the ultimate 
solution of which constitutes a real plot. 

Whatever the character of the struggle, there must be contest of 
some sort; for the photoplay without some clearly defined and original 
conflict—that is, a struggle occasioned by new motives worked out 
along new lines—is not a photoplay at all. It is a play without a plot. 
When struggle ends, a mere uneventful chain of events begins. 

Plot a Simplification of Life. 

Robert Louis Stevenson once advised story writers in this way: 

“As the root of the whole matter let him bear in mind that his novel 
is not a transcript of life, to be judged by its exactitude; but a simpli¬ 
fication of some side or point of life, to stand or fall by its significant 
simplicity. For although, in great men, working upon great motives, 
wh^t we observe and admire is often their complexity, yet underneath 
appearances the truth remains unchanged: that simplification was 
their method , and that simplicity is their excellence.” 

This applies equally well to the photoplaywright. The real method 
of every art is simplification. It should be the duty of every photo¬ 
playwright to simplify life. He first should select his essentials from 
the great kaleidoscope of life, then arrange them in an exact, detailed 
manner. In evolving a plot, the photoplaywright should select only 
those events having a close relation to every other, and arrange them 
in a certain pattern according to cause and effect. 

Unity , and Motive in the .Photoplay. 

Every good photoplay is a unit. Unity is a prime structural neces¬ 
sity in the photoplay as it is in any work of art. And the only way 
unity can be secured is by forming a definite idea of just what is to be 
accomplished and the determined focusing of attention on its accom¬ 
plishment. You should exclude from your thoughts all things that 
do not pertain directly or indirectly to the end you have in view. 

Since it is the aim of the photoplaywright to portray a series of 
events closely related to each other, it is easily seen that he cannot do 
this unless all extraneous matter is eliminated. For this reason, it is 
wise for the writer to select a motive—a good reason for the different 
things happening in his play. To use the words of Stevenson again: 
‘“Let him (the writer) choose a motive, whether of character or 
•passion; carefully construct his plot so that every incident is an illus¬ 
tration of the motive, and each property employed shall bear to it a near 
relation of congruity or contrast;—and allow neither himself in the 
narrative nor any character in the course of the dialogue, to utter one 
sentence that is not part and parcel of the business of the story or a 
discussion of the problem involved. Let him not regret if this shortens 
his book; it will be better so; for to add irrelevant matter is not to 
lengthen but to bury. Let him not mind if he loses a thousand quali¬ 
ties, so that he keeps unflaggedly in pursuit of the one he has chosen.” 


The Photoplay Plot 


87 


Stevenson had story writing in mind when writing the above; his 
words apply equally well, however, to the photoplay writer. In every 
photoplay there must be a good reason for every act. Any situation 
without an underlying motive is valueless. Writers often overlook 
this. They frequently allow their characters to meet in various places 
and under certain desired conditions without showing any good reason 
why they should be there. In other words, many events in their plays 
just “happen” for the author’s convenience in developing his plot. 

For example: Two characters plot in a secret conversation. A third 
character, while passing, overhears their plans. This would work out 
all right providing there was a reason why that third character hap¬ 
pened along when he did—providing there was a motive back of it all. 
Without the motive, the whole business becomes mere absurdity. 

So no one of your characters should perform any act, no matter how 
insignificant, unless there is a motive back of it. Of course, it is much 
easier to let characters “do things” without motive; but plots de¬ 
veloped in such a lazy manner seem too artificial. And the minute 
you adopt this easy-going style of writing, you cease to interest—you 
even become offensive to ordinary intelligence. To be convincing 
and satisfying, your entire story must be dominated by a powerful 
motive. If there is a motive, cause and effect will take care of itself; 
without motive, your characters will lose themselves in a maze of 
absurdity. 

Why Structures Are Important. 

But no matter in what manner you work, you will find that most 
good manuscripts are completed before they are written; that is, they 
are completely worked out in the author’s mind before he sets them 
down on paper. This explains why, when viewing a good photoplay, 
we always feel as though the author is taking us to a definite place, 
that we are “getting somewhere.” Of course, it is impossible for us 
to foresee the ending, still we know in our heart all the while that the 
author has carefully planned just what the ending will be. This con¬ 
viction produces deep interest on the part of the audience. 

Why are photoplays so popular? Find your answer by looking at 
life itself. What is life? Not a great deal more than a jumble of 
events leading “every which way.” Life is usually a mix-up. It 
lacks a neat pattern. It does not proceed in an orderly, processional 
manner. The average person thinks that some wizard, or God, alone 
can understand the future. In seeing a good photoplay, however, the 
average individual is always satisfied that the author knows what is 
going to happen next, that he knows what to-morrow will bring forth, 
that he thoroughly understands the direction in which everything is 
progressing; he seems to know all. Hence, he makes life interesting 
because he makes it orderly, systematic, understandable. He accom¬ 
plishes this in no small degree by his constructive ability. 

The Simplest Form of Plot. 

The most elementary plot possible would be one in which a series 
of events proceeded logically and without interruption along a single 
strand of causation. Here, the first event would be the cause of the 


88 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


second, the second the cause of the third, and so on to the culmination 
of the series. This simple form of plot is frequently employed-in 
Boccaccio’s “Decameron.” This style of plot certainly is logical; but 
such a style would never do for most photoplays because it is too 
childish. It would be a case of going to the extreme. In fact, such a 
plot would not, in a large sense, be a real interpretation of life—and 
the portrayal of real life is the aim of the photoplay. It would not 
portray life because it would not show the definite shifts from one 
event to another. It would fail to exhibit the complications of real 
life. In other words, a simple plot like this is too straightforward to 
be interesting. It is too regular. It lacks suspense. 

How to Create Interest and Suspense. 

The easiest way to make your plot interesting and more interpre¬ 
tative of real life is to introduce negative elements—to usher in events 
tending to retard progress and make it difficult for the characters to 
accomplish their desired aims. In doing this, you not only create 
suspense and make your plot more interesting, but you also emphasize 
the ultimate victory. These negative and hindering elements are not 
extraneous; they hinder the progress of events, but they also help 
matters along through their failure to stop them. 

The events in a well-constructed plot may, consequently, be roughly 
divided into two classes; direct, or positive; indirect, or negative. By 
a direct event is meant one helping the progress of the plot toward the 
climax. By an indirect event is meant one tending to arrest progress. 

Life is made up of conflict and victory. So by introducing elements 
tending to retard temporarily the progress of your plot, you portray 
life as it actually is. 

Half the charm of a good photoplay lies in not knowing what is 
going to happen next. If the people of an audience know how your 
play is going to end, they are no longer interested. This state of 
suspense—uncertainty, anxiety, or expectation—should be kept in 
mind all the while you are developing your plot. Introduce unexpected 
“twists,” little surprises, minor climaxes, so that the audience will be 
kept in a constant state of uncertainty. 

In scene fifty-three of “The Countess Charming,” the Model 
Photoplay in Part III of this book, we have the beginning of brief 
suspense created by the uncertainty as to whether Betty will or will 
not recognize Julian as the “Countess.” In scene sixty-nine, we have 
the beginning of more extended suspense as to whether Julian will be 
caught in his “stealing.” This runs all through the play and keeps 
the audience guessing. Suspense is further complicated in scene 
seventy-five and also in eighty-five. 

In your desire to create suspense, do not introduce into the first 
part of your plot events likely to mislead the audience into thinking 
that they have bearing on the ultimate climax, when they have abso¬ 
lutely no relation to it. On the contrary, the little events all through 
your play should indicate, in a vague way, how it might end; but, as 
previously stated, you must not let the audience “see through” your 
story. There is a vast difference between being prepared for an event 
and anticipating it. 


The Photoplay Plot 


89 


Always remember that suspense is an indispensible element in photo¬ 
play writing. If you use it properly, you will find it the most valuable 
asset in writing salable manuscripts. 

Complication in Plot. 

The simplest form of plot is the weaving together of two separate 
series of events. The simplest way to weave a series together is to 
join them in a common culmination—even though they be widely 
separated at their beginnings. This common culmination, or climax, 
might aptly be termed the major knot. 

For example, consider “Silas Marner.” Here the culminating 
event is the redemption of Silas from his aloofness from life. This is 
accomplished by the influence of a child; it is led up to by two separate 
series of events. One series begins with an injustice done Silas when 
a youth; the other series begins with the secret marriage of Godfrey 
Cass. The beginning of each series has no connection with the other ; 
but, in spite of all, each approaches nearer and nearer until they unite 
and form a climax, or major knot. 

The above is not an elaborate plot—it contains only two strands, 
or lines of causation, while it is possible and permissible for the author 
to approach his culmination through three or more separate strands. 
Witness Sydney Carton’s death in “A Tale of Two Cities.” This is 
the culmination of several strands of causation. The author may 
complicate matters still further by tying the various strands at points 
other than the culmination. Watch Shakespeare. In his “The Mer¬ 
chant of Venice,” the culmination, climax, or major knot, takes place 
in the trial scene, wherein Shylock is outwitted by Portia. The 
strands are also tied together loosely in the play’s very beginning when 
Antonio borrows from Shylock. 

Also, an event in the main series may become the culmination of a 
minor series, thus forming a sub-plot. Referring to “The Merchant 
of Venice” again: The elopement of Jessica and Lorenzo—a sub-plot 
—culminates in a scene occurring mid-way between the beginning of 
the main strand (this begins with the signing of the bond) and the 
grand climax—the defeat of Shylock. 

The Major Knot. 

No matter how complex your plot may be, it is bound to reach a 
point where one big event stands as the climax of all events. This is 
the major knot tying all strands together. In most plots, the photo¬ 
play aims to show the reader how this major knot came into being— 
how it was tied. This is not enough, however, to satisfy the public 
completely. They must know how events readjust themselves; how 
the major knot becomes untied. Therefore, the major knot, or the 
point of greatest complication, must not come at the end of your play. 
Instead, it should appear about three quarters of the way through 
your story. Consequently, the first three quarters of your play should 
show what leads up to the major knot, and the last quarter should 
disclose how events adjust themselves. Therefore, a plot consists of 
certain conditions leading up to a complication, which, in turn, is 
followed by an explication—a tying followed by an untying. 


90 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


The Three Elements of Plot. 

Aristotle said that each plot must have “a beginning, a middle, and 
an end.” He did not mean that each plot may be cut into three equal 
parts. What he termed the “middle” is likely to appear very near 
the end of the average photoplay. It is not likely to be in the center. 
But everything that follows is, and was considered by Aristotle, the 
“end,” and everything that precedes, the “beginning.” 

The elements of plot are three in number, then: the complication, 
or beginning; the climax, major knot, or “middle”; and the explica¬ 
tion, “end,” or final untying of the major knot. 

The Complication , or Beginning. —When photoplay writing was 
young, editors were content to feature material with a big climax or 
inspiring ending, and were satisfied to allow the author to lead up to 
this climax in a more or less slow, uninteresting manner. This is not 
possible to-day. Now the author is expected to “start something” at 
the very opening of his production. The interest of the spectator must 
be captured at the very outset; hence, the action of the play should 
not begin with a slow, casual introduction of the characters; should 
not picture a multitude of commonplace and ordinary incidents lead¬ 
ing up to the climax. You must begin your play immediately with 
action. Certainly a stirring climax is worthy of an interesting intro¬ 
duction. 

Begin your play in a natural manner. Do not make the condition 
of events at the opening seem artificial. Don’t take things for 
granted. You must not grab your characters out of the air and say 
such-and-such conditions exist. Tell why and how those conditions 
came about. 

Make your beginnings interesting. Many otherwise good produc¬ 
tions are ruined because their opening is so tiresome and uninteresting 
that, by the time the spectator reaches a worth while portion of the 
plot, he is asleep, disgusted—and in no condition to judge fairly the 
merit of the balance of the play—or has left the theatre. The best 
way to make your beginning interesting is to eliminate all extraneous 
matter and promptly “get down to business.” 

The beginning of a play should be fresh, new, different. Avoid 
opening with a smiling bow or nod by each character. Instead, make 
the first scene tell something of the story; make all of your explana¬ 
tions in ACTION. 

Start your play v-i-v-i-d-l-y—the word needs emphasis. Let every¬ 
thing be bright, intense, active, gripping—possessive of all the qualities 
of vigorous life. Make your opening of vital concern to the audience. 

The Climax , or Major Knot. —While writing your play, carefully 
watch the climax itself, for it is the final climax to which we are con¬ 
stantly advancing. And it is the climax for which the audience 
should be breathlessly waiting. Situation follows situation, suspense 
constantly grows, events become more and more involved until solu¬ 
tion seems impossible—misfortune seems bound to engulf our players. 
Then light appears. The “big scene” takes place; the climax is 
reached. Our curiosity is gratified. 

But wait! The characters can’t be left “in the air.” True, the 
knot has been cut, but we are not satisfied. Does the hero marry the 


The Photoplay Plot 


91 


girl? Are those estranged lovers united? Is the schemer punished? 
This must be made clear, or the audience will leave the theatre and 
say, “It was a good play, but had a peculiar ending.” Here is where 
Aristotle’s “end” fits in nicely. 

The Explication , or End .—The third element of plot is the untying 
of the major knot. Usually the play ends in short order after the 
climax. The characters quickly adjust all their affairs and bid the 
audience a hasty “good-by.” In one of O. Henry’s stories, however, the 
value of the work rests in the explication. The story opens with a 
young married couple sitting in their home. Love is everywhere. The 
bride voices a wish, a fervent desire. It is early spring, but she wants 
a peach. So the husband starts out to find one. He sees a lot of 
oranges everywhere, but peaches are mighty scarce. In fact, they are 
nowhere to be found. Still he has hope. He knows of a certain 
gambling establishment, wherein the proprietor makes a hobby of 
serving to his patrons all the delicacies the world affords. So the hero 
organizes a raid on the place, breaks in, and quickly makes for the 
culinary department. With great joy he grasps one lone peach. His 
is the pride of an Alexander as he places the coveted fruit in the hands 
of his beloved wife. What’s that the bride says? “I don’t know but 
what I would just as soon have had an orange.” 

It is hardly necessary to say that the photoplaywright must interest 
his audience. He has another duty, however; he must satisfy them. 
This the explication does. It is a fine thing to write a gripping plot, 
making it intensely interesting up to the ending; but, in that last 
scene, you must untangle the knot you have tied, you must satisfy the 
audience, you must make them feel that everything has ended in a 
pleasant, gratifying manner. You don’t want them to go away 
displeased. 

It is not only important that you explain what happens to the char¬ 
acter, but also that you show why things happen as they do. The 
average person knows there must be a reason for everything. He will 
give your play a fair chance. He will sit patiently through your plot 
even if it is rather dull, and, in the end, be satisfied if you will only 
show him before you are through that there is a reason for all that 
has gone before. 

In writing the ending to your plot, try, without being grotesque, 
to break away from the commonplace. Conclude your plot in as unex¬ 
pected a manner as possible. 

But, if your story contains any kind of a mystery, do not allow the 
audience to guess the solution. Their interest depends on suspense 
and doubt; but a natural ending is necessary. Everything must be 
made clear and satisfying. Many otherwise excellent manuscripts 
have been rejected simply because they ended in an unsatisfactory 
manner. The plot may begin in a very pleasing way; the complica¬ 
tions and situations may be truly interesting and entertaining; but, 
somehow, the story fails at the end. In other words, the explication 
is not satisfying. Take, for example, the produced Fox play, “Riders 
of the Purple Sage,” featuring William Farnum. This was a fine 
story with an intensely gripping plot, masterfully acted by Mr. Far¬ 
num in his usually pleasing, whole-hearted manner. But the ending 


92 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


failed to satisfy anyone. Perhaps the producer realized this, for he 
soon followed the first picture with a sequel, which adjusted the 
unsatisfactory ending of the previous picture. 

You will realize how important the explication of a manuscript is 
when you know that the public demands a happy ending. No matter 
how artistic it may seem to end your work tragically, I advise you not 
to do it. The public wants real life as it actually is, except in this one 
particular. Even though the happy ending is somewhat inconsistent, 
it still is demanded; and, if you hope to sell your work, you had 
better confine yourself to the happy ending. 

Where To Begin A Photoplay . 

After you have gathered together all the material you intend to use 
in your plot, you then must decide where to begin. Here you enjoy 
the utmost liberty; you are guided only by your own desires and 
inclinations. You may start at the actual beginning of your plot; or 
you may follow the plan often used by Horace, of beginning in the 
middle and working backward toward the beginning. For, it is plain 
that, as long as the photoplaywright presents the events of his plot in 
logical sequence, it is not absolutely necessary to introduce them in 
chronological order. A photoplay may be told backward as well as 
forward. This is the device necessarily used in detective and mystery 
stories. Here, the writer begins with a major knot and works back¬ 
ward—unravelling as he goes—though his events still follow in logical 
sequence. 

In some plays, the writer opens with the main character well ad¬ 
vanced in years; then the action reverts to former years by way of 
explanation. In fact retrogression in time is often absolutely neces¬ 
sary. It is better, however, for the new writer to make the events 
of his plot follow each other not only in logical sequence but also in 
chronological succession. 

Tying and Untying. 

The complication and the major climax of a plot usually are far 
more interesting than the ending. That is, the causes leading up to 
an important event in a person’s life, and the event itself, are more 
entertaining than the readjustment. This is the reason why the 
culmination of a photoplay should be placed well toward the end. 
Often, however, the knot in a play is cut at the very end—producing 
a great surprise often—but there really is no dried-and-cut reason why 
the climax should come far to the rear, because frequently the adjust¬ 
ment following the main complication is very entertaining. In fact, 
in many stories, the main complication arises at the beginning and the 
photoplay itself deals with an elaborate explication. Thus it is in 
detective stories. Here a knot is tied with Gordian intricacy at the 
very beginning; the play itself exploits the prowess of the detective 
in untying the knot. 

How To Find Plots. 

Some beginners have an idea that all the available plot material 
has been used. They are very wrong in this. Look at O. Henry. 
His stories will live forever. He will always touch a responsive 


The Photoplay Plot 


93 


chord in the hearts and minds of fiction lovers everywhere. Why? 
Simply because he saw interesting stories everywhere, good ideas in 
everything. Suppose he had said to himself: “It’s useless for me to 
try to write. The plots have all been used up. There is nothing 
new I can say. Shakespeare said all.” Had he done this the world 
would have lost scores of the best short stories ever written. True, 
practically every subject has been written about; thousands of plays 
have been produced; but thousands more will come to life upon the 
screen after present-day writers have unraveled their life’s plot and 
have passed out of the picture. Decades from now, authors will be 
turning out play after play in ever-increasing numbers; and, even 
though the basic themes of their work are, in a sense, old, they will be 
treated in a new way, so that they will seem new and fresh to the 
average playgoer. Life itself is world-old, yet we all live life differ¬ 
ently, no two alike. 

There are stories everywhere. The world is full of plots. Life 
is so burdened with plot material that the really earnest writer should 
be more concerned in finding out what he shall use than where he shall 
find it. No matter where or in what circumstances you live, there 
are innumerable plots all about you waiting to be utilized. All of 
your friends are living plots; your neighbors also; your family even. 
There is a story in every street, ’round every corner, in every city, in 
every country. FIND THEME! Don’t dream of things or condi¬ 
tions about which you are unfamiliar. Instead, look around in your 
every-day life for material. You will find plenty of things to write 
about. 

There is no limit to the places from which you can gather ideas; 
no limit except that prescribed by your own observation and your own 
knowledge of life. Study humanity; watch people; be observant. 
The lives of people will furnish you with ideas—and surely there are 
enough different types of people to supply millions of plots. No two 
people are just alike; they can’t be; their circumstances and the things 
going to make up their lives are varied. So that most of their strug¬ 
gles, their joys and sorrows, their hopes and fears, form a wonderful 
field for you to work on. Every passing minute has its story, every 
breath of life its plot. You can find them if you will. 

Look at the world sympathetically. Study people, actions, motives. 
You will be surprised at the great wealth of material which will 
quickly unfold before you. 

Why You Should Have A Definite Objective Point. 

Unity in the photoplay is just as essential as it is in the novel; and 
the only way in which a writer may attain unity is to maintain a 
definite objective point, to keep constantly in mind the culmination of 
his series of events, and not utilize any incidents or situations not 
helping to bring the action to a climax. In other words, a writer 
must have the end of his story in mind before he begins. He must 
make the audience feel that he knows just where he is leading them. 
They must have a sense of progressing toward the desired end. Before 
an author actually starts to write his play, it must be entirely worked 
out in his own mind. He must know quite definitely just what is 
going to happen and what will not be included in the action of his 


94 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


plot. He must not try to make up his story as he goes along—the 
favorite pastime of many beginners. 

If a writer fails to keep the climax of his play in mind, he will not 
be able to decide, when writing his manuscript, whether this or that 
event does, or does not, belong in the series leading to the major knot. 
The result will probably be a jumble of events leading nowhere. 
How To Build A Plot. 

As previously stated, there can be no plot unless there are complica¬ 
tions, or, as sometimes termed, situations. A situation is a temporary 
combination of conditions, or state of affairs—usually not pleasant, 
generally unfortunate for the time being. As a rule, the average plot 
consists of a number of situations of minor importance, all leading 
up to, and culminating in, the major climax. As soon as a writer is 
able to work out an interesting situation for his main characters, he 
has the beginning of a plot; then it is not such a difficult matter to 
complete the story. 

As previously outlined, there are three elements of plot: complica¬ 
tion, climax, ending. To build a plot in an easy way, begin with the 
_ climax, or major knot; think of an appealing predicament for your 
main character; then build your story backward to the beginning, and 
onward to the end. 

Of course, people with synthetic minds naturally reason from cause 
to effect. Analytic minds, on the other hand, tend to reason from 
effect to cause. In evolving a plot, therefore, it is quite likely that the 
former intellect would construct forward through time; the latter, 
backward. If you place yourself at a certain beginning, it is easy to 
imagine forward along a certain series of events leading to a climax, 
then to an ending; or, beginning at the climax, it may be just as easy, 
or perhaps easier, to imagine backward to the various causes, or events, 
which brought about the major knot. In other words, most writers 
build their plots in either one of two ways: from cause to effect, from 
beginning to end; or from effect to cause, from climax to beginning. 
It seems apparent that Thackeray worked in the former manner. 
Guy de Maupassant evidently constructed in the latter way. 

If you will take your climax, analyze it, pick out possible reasons 
why the characters are in their predicaments, then find the solution 
for their trouble—working out all of their difficulties, or untying the 
knot, as it were—you have your entire plot. In this way, you quickly 
construct a logical chain of events advancing to an interesting climax 
and ending in a satisfactory solution. You can readily see that, in 
developing your plot in this manner, you will unconsciously be logical; 
your work will be a perfect unit. 

After you have worked your plot out in this manner, go back to the 
beginning. Rehearse everything completely from start to finish. In 
this way, you will be sure to eliminate contradictory elements, or 
illogical situations coming, either of which might have crept into your 
work. 

This easy method of plot building has been outlined for the reason 
that it will greatly simplify your work. It is not necessary for you, 
however, to develop your plot in this manner. There are no hard 
and fast rules. Methods vary with individual temperaments. You 


The Photoplay Plot 


95 


may discover a new method yourself. At any rate, it is safe to say 
that your own method, no matter what it is, will seem the most logical 
to you; for, after all, it is a question which each writer must work out 
for himself. Most successful writers have found, however, that they 
must know the general course of their play—and above all know the 
end—before they can begin. 

You might make Euclid your model. He outlines his plot, then 
immediately starts to develop it, carefully weeding out all incidents 
that do not directly relate to the climax. He always keeps his eye 
on the end he has in view. And, the minute he reaches the culmina¬ 
tion, he stops. 

The beginner is advised, however, to develop his plot in the analytic 
manner—from effect to cause, from climax to beginning. He will be 
more apt to eliminate the extraneous, in reasoning from effect to cause, 
than in working from cause to effect. Furthermore, in building 
analytically, he is more apt to produce a perfect unit than if working 
in the synthetic manner. 

Fully ninety-nine out of every hundred manuscripts are rejected 
because they lack a strong plot. Most writers fail because they really 
have nothing to write about. The great, crying need of the average 
script is plot, plot, plot. This statement cannot be over-emphasized. 

In developing your plot, keep an elastic mind. Don’t take certain 
fixed situations and try to adhere closely to them. See if it is not possi¬ 
ble to alter your series of events and forge into new channels of 
thought. If you do this, you may be surprised at the great number of 
ideas which will readily present themselves. 

After you have completed your plot, do not immediately start to 
write your synopsis. Don’t hurry. Take plenty of time. Lay your 
work aside for a week or two. Forget about it. Write more plots. 
Then, after your first ideas have become rather vague in your mind, 
go back to them. Work them over. The chances are ten to one that 
you will find many flaws and inconsistencies in their development. 
These you can easily remedy yourself and greatly increase the value 
of your work. 

“Eternal Three ” 

The plots of stories often deal with only one character. Haw¬ 
thorne’s “Wakefield” concerns itself with the analysis of the character 
of a certain gentleman who decided not to go home one night. In¬ 
stead, he lodged in another street; and, as a result, stayed away from 
home for twenty years. Other stories, like “Silas Marner,” involve 
two main characters. Most photoplays, however, deal with three 
leading people. This three-cornered relationship has often been 
termed “eternal triangle,” “dramatic triad,” and so on. In this treatise 
it will be called the Eternal Three. 

While it is possible to write photoplays concerning only two char¬ 
acters—or even one, for that matter—it is not a desirable thing for 
the beginner to attempt. This is true because, in dealing with one or 
two characters, it is a difficult matter to get action and strong compli¬ 
cations. It is far easier to precipitate swift complication when there 
are three characters. Here the attitude of two characters toward the 
third immediately precipitates action. For example, see how easy it 


96 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


is to inject complications into this three-cornered plot from Miss Wil¬ 
kin’s “New England Nun.” 

Louisa Ellis, an “old maid,” is quietly sated in her little home one 
afternoon. Her betrothed lover, Joe Daggett, calls. They have been 
engaged for fifteen years, during which time Joe has been seeking his 
fortune in Australia. Both have been faithful; but, now that the 
wedding day is drawing near, both are apprehensive. Louisa Ellis 
dreads the marriage, but does not dare tell Joe. He has realized, too, 
that the love between them has vanished—in fact, he has fallen in 
love with a younger woman, Lily Dyer. But he is faithful to Louisa. 
Here is a real knot. Miss Wilkins unravels it easily in this manner. 
Louisa, while strolling down a road one moonlit night, unintentionally 
hears Joe and Lily talking. She hears them say they both think it 
wrong and unjust for Joe to break his engagement with Louisa. 
Having heard this, Louisa breaks the engagement herself. This com¬ 
pletely unties the knot; the solution is simple and natural. 

The elements of these three-cornered plots present a very fascinating 
problem to the photoplaywright. The characters may be two men and 
one woman, or two women and one man. Such a triangular relation¬ 
ship inevitably brings up consuming passion, fear, jealousy, surprise, 
anger, remorse even—all of which are right at the playwright’s finger 
tips when he uses the “eternal three.” 

You may think at first glance that the eternal triangle does not exist 
in many stories. Perhaps the story may deal with only one character. 
If you will analyze the situations closely, however, you may find that 
the three-cornered plot is there even though we only have one char¬ 
acter. That character may be struggling against opposition of some 
sort to gain wealth. Here the triangle is: character, opposition, 
wealth. He may be struggling against poverty for fame. Here it is: 
character, poverty, fame. But what is more common, he may have a 
sweetheart. The girl he loves and a third person in the form of a 
rival, or an objecting parent, completes the ordinary triangle. There 
are any number of three-cornered arrangements; in fact, it is rare 
indeed that a plot is built without the three-leaved relationship. 

Therefore, the best thing for the new writer to do when beginning 
his plot is to locate a definite set of characters—a trio, preferably; then 
put them in a predicament. It is not necessary to rack your brain to 
find things for them to do. And do not try to dream of situations. 
Look around in your own life, in your own experience, and in the 
lives and experiences of your friends. You will find plenty of situa¬ 
tions. You read stories, you read magazines, you read newspapers; 
therefore, it ought to be a simple matter for you to find any number 
of intense situations for your characters. 

Not all things in real life, however, are suitable plot material. 
They may lack dramatic qualities, they may be trite and commonplace, 
or they may so out of the ordinary that it would be impossible to make 
them convincing on the screen. Many writers imagine that, if some¬ 
thing actually happens in life, it ought to make a fine plot. Not so. 
There have been instances where mothers have injured their children, 
but it would not be wise to write a photoplay on such a subject; 
because it would be practically impossible to convince the average 


The Photoplay Plot 


97 


person that it was true to life, because of the fact that it is out of the 
ordinary. Therefore, you will have to use care in selecting plots from 
real life. 

R. G. Moulton says: “It may be said boldly that fiction is truer than 
fact. Half the difference of opinion on the whole subject rests upon 
a mental confusion between two things, fact and truth—fact, the 
mass of particular and individual details; truth that is of general and 
universal import—fact, the raw material; truth, the finished article 
into which it is to be made up, with hundreds of chances of flaws in 
the working.” 

“Prefer an impossibility which seems 
probable, to a probability which seems 
impossible.” 

Aristotle. 

How To Study and Analyze Other Photoplays. 

If you will study other plots you will be amply repaid. You will be 
surprised at the great good this will do you. Read other peoples’ 
stories; see their plays. Watch how they build plots. Then invent 
situations and complications of your own. This will unconsciously 
teach you to cultivate a creative attitude and is bound to make you a 
better writer. 

When watching a photoplay, mentally tear it apart. Turn the situ- 
tions inside-out. By doing this you will learn to invent plots yourself. 

Read newspapers carefully. Study magazines. You will be aston¬ 
ished at the great number of plots you will find in the events which 
daily transpire all over the world. 

The average picture-goer fails to analyze the photoplays he sees. 
He goes to the theatre to be entertained. Of course, he carefully 
watches the play on the screen. But, when it is all over, the chances 
are that he doesn’t know why he likes it, if he does. It pleases him, 
that’s all. On the other hand, if he told you a certain picture appearing 
in your city wasn’t good, he probably couldn’t tell you exactly why. 
He might attempt to advance a reason, but probably couldn’t give an 
adequate one. 

Hereafter, when you go to the theatre, watch every play carefully. 
Note every action, every exprsession, every scene, every scenic effect. 
Examine the situations, dissect the play completely, see if you can 
find defects in it. Don’t be unreasonable, but try to develop a critical 
attitude. Cultivate that attitude in every way possible. 

Watch everything with a clear eye. By so doing, the play you see 
will cause a great many germ-plots to suggest themselves to you. 
These bare ideas can easily be enlarged upon and used as main situa¬ 
tions in your own work. It is safe to say that the average successful 
writer has thought of many plots when viewing other productions. 

Don’t go to see any particular class of pictures. It is impossible for 
you to witness everything, but you can try to see a variety of material. 
This will greatly help to give you a variety of ideas. 

Remember this. When you see a picture on the screen, you are 
viewing something which has been approved, probably written by a 
successful writer or a well-known director. Try to find, then, why the 


98 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


play is successful; why the studio liked it; in what particulars it 
differed from your work. Keep an open mind. This may be hard to 
do, but it will repay you a thousand ways. 

The successful photoplay writer must keep himself well-informed. 
He must know what the other fellow is doing and what is being pro¬ 
duced. He must understand thoroughly the different requirements 
of all studios and know in a very comprehensive manner what type of 
material each of them is buying. 

Besides closely watching what the “other fellow” puts into his 
picture, try to find incidents which he could have utilized in his work, 
yet failed to. Few writers make the best use of the material they 
have in hand. They often overlook a lot of good ideas, which you 
probably can use in some of your photoplays. Also note, in a general 
way, the amount of reading matter the author shows on the screen, 
the average length of his scenes, the number of close-ups he employs, 
and so on, remembering, above all, that, even though you may be able 
to find defects in his work, there was enough good in it to warrant its 
being produced. 

A Way To Make Plot Gathering Easy. 

Some writers overflow with ideas for plots. To them, plot-building 
seems a matter of instinct. They are born story-tellers. They find it 
the easiest matter in the world to think of any number of excellent 
ideas. As Bliss Perry nicely observes: “For these natural spinners of 
the yarn, to whom invention is the most easy, the most fascinating, 
the most captivating of gifts—for a Stevenson, a Scott, a Dumas—to 
block out the plot of a story is a mere bagatelle.” With the average 
person, however, it is a far different matter. He has to do a lot of 
hard thinking to work out something satisfactory. 

You can greatly simplify your plot troubles, and make the problem 
of finding suitable plots an easy one, if you will acquire the note-book 
habit. Never be without a note-book. Whenever you think of a new 
idea—any kind of a suggestion which you may be able to use in any 
way—write it down. Don’t let it fly by just because you have no 
immediate use for it. Jot it down anyway; then, at some later date 
when you are in need of material, you will run across it and be deeply 
grateful that you did write it down. And remember that no writer 
in the world glances around and finds a plot already worked out for 
him. They all begin with simple ideas and carefully work them out 
into finished productions. So don’t wait for ideas to come to you. 
They won’t step up, tap you on the shoulder, and say, “I’m a plot.” 
You have to find them hiding around the corner, and bring them out 
into the light. 

Maybe you are the type of writer who thinks of ideas easiest when 
your mind is busy—when you are working on one of your other pro¬ 
ductions. Anyway you will find that ideas come more readily at 
certain times. Many writers have found that they can think of ten 
times as many good ideas after they lie down for the night. If this 
is the case with you, keep your note-book handy. 

Do not think for one minute that this note-book suggestion is mere 
theory or sheer waste of time. If beginners sometimes imagine this, 


The Photoplay Plot 


99 


it is because they do not understand the importance of system in writ¬ 
ing. System is just as essential to your success as it is to any business 
or professional man. So don’t scorn the note-book habit and be the 
loser. 


How To Gather Ideas From Other People's Plots 
Without Imitating. 

Few writers, indeed, intentionally apprehend any part of another 
person’s writing and use it as their own. And it is not the purpose 
of this chapter to give anyone the idea that they should utilize other 
people’s ideas in this manner. The author of this book despises such 
methods. Therefore, the first thing to be said is, do not rehash other 
people’s ideas and pass them out as your own. Don’t take other 
people’s plots and slightly rearrange them for your own use. You 
won’t get far if you do. The photoplaywright, if he is to be anything, 
must be his own thinker. 

But, though you must not take other people’s ideas, it nevertheless 
is true that the plots of other writers will cause ideas of your own to 
suggest themselves, and you would be very foolish if you failed to 
make use of these new ideas simply because you thought they might 
have some connection with the other story. By studying other people’s 
work, your own imagination is stimulated; and you would be foolish, 
indeed, if you failed to use the ideas brought to your mind in this 
manner. Of course, when you take ideas from the newspapers, there 
is no possibility of purloining another’s brains. The accounts in the 
papers are just as much yours as anybody’s. Although they are written 
by certain correspondents, still they are merely an account of events. 
They are public property, often of great dramatic value. (This does 
not apply to articles, stories, small filler, and the like, in newspapers.) 
But you should not take a plot bodily from the papers. Not that it 
belongs to anyone in particular, but, if it is good, the chances are that 
ten thousand would-be writers have done the same thing—maybe 
sooner than you. Therefore, use newspaper incidents merely as a 
basis for a plot, and work out the chain of situations in your own 
way. Then your finished manuscript will be different. In other 
words, use the newspapers as a stimulant for your own imagination. 

Don’t confine yourself to the reading of newspapers and fiction. A 
comprehensive knowledge of fiction and all current events is of great 
importance, but you should also be familiar with the better books of 
philosophy, history, science and education. In fact, in order to make 
yourself a well-balanced, broad-minded writer, you must gain a gen¬ 
eral knowledge of all writing. 

And from this extensive reading, you will constantly gather facts 
and situations, complications and predicaments, all of which you will, 
at one time or another, be able to develop into cashable ideas. 

Almost everything you see or read is of value. It ought to serve 
either one of two purposes: suggest a new plot to you, or suggest a 
better way to complete some idea only partially worked out. 

Use great care in utilizing plots gathered from other people’s work, 
not only for your own safety, but because of the fact that, if you try 
to adopt another’s ideas bodily, the chances are that many unscrupu- 


100 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


lous writers will “beat you to it.” In other words, use only the bare 
ideas you gather from other people’s writing. In this way you can re¬ 
shape them and surround them with new incidents in such a manner 
that no one would recognize them as having sprung from any particu¬ 
lar source. Such plots truly will be all your own. This is not only the 
safest way, but the only sensible way to write; for, if you adopt other 
people’s ideas bodily, you never will sell a manuscript. Your work 
will be so like other writers’ productions, already filmed, that no 
editor will buy from you. 

A great many beginners read of some sensational trial in the courts 
and immediately conclude that it will make a wonderful story. They 
copy the entire trial, incident for incident, sometimes even to actual 
names. The result is a hopelessly unsalable play. These writers 
make the mistake of copying a story from the newspaper, instead of 
getting a basic idea from the real event and working it out in their 
own way. Newspapers and other people’s stories will not aid the 
writer who lacks inventive ability. They serve merely as sign-posts 
to show the wise writer where he can find inspiration. It is not what 
you read in the papers that counts, but in what manner the reading 
excites your imagination. 

How often the writer is approached by a friend who says, “I’ve 
a great idea for you.” Usually, the only consideration which should 
be granted this “great idea” is respect for the aged. Do not make the 
mistake of writing about the plots your friends give you. Think for 
yourself. Don’t refuse friendly suggestion; listen to what people have 
to say. You may , once in a lifetime, get a fine suggestion in this 
manner. As a rule, however, the ideas given away are not worth 
accepting; people with worth while ideas aren’t peddling them. 

The copyright law provides a penalty of $100 for every exhibition 
of a photoplay based on a copyrighted story or play, provided the owner 
of the copyright has not granted permission to use his work. So it 
becomes pretty expensive to use another’s ideas. 

But suppose you did take another person’s plot and make a play 
out of it, and even succeeded in selling it. Suppose again, that it was 
produced at a cost of several thousand dollars. After going to this 
great expense, the producer puts the play on the market; and, after 
it has appeared several times, the original writer learns you have 
stolen his work. Can you imagine what would happen? Can’t you 
see how many thousands of dollars it would cost the producer to settle 
the case? Not only that; but you probably would never be able to 
sell another manuscript to any other company. They would keep 
you well in mind. You would be persona non grata at every studio. 

Therefore, in gathering ideas from other people’s plots, be very 
careful to use incidents here and there, and let them serve as a stimu¬ 
lant for your own imagination, so that you are really and truly able 
to work out a finished manuscript all your own. 

In short don’t worry about where you get your ideas just so you get 
them honestly. 

Why You Should Keep Well-Informed. 

Writers have been known to spend many days and nights completing 
some pet idea. They fully expected it would startle the world. Per- 


The Photoplay Plot 


101 


haps it was very clever; but, after they had it finished, they found to 
their sorrow that it had been used before in some similar manner. 
Naturally, it was hard to convince them of this at first, but the truth 
gradually dawned. What a disappointment! 

This can be avoided by keeping well-informed. You cannot know 
too much about what is going on in the world about you. An experi¬ 
enced critic, or an editor, easily recognizes new ideas because he is 
perfectly familiar with all screened material. Furthermore, he is 
well-read with respect to current books, magazines, newspapers, and 
the like. You should be, too. It is the greatest antidote in the world 
for the unconscious use of other peoples’ ideas. 

It would be a good thing if every photoplay writer would carefully 
read all of the motion picture magazines and the motion picture trade 
journals, constantly keeping himself familiar with the activities of all 
the leading actors and actresses. Know, above all, what types of 
pictures the different companies are releasing. You can obtain this 
information from any of the motion picture magazines and trade 
journals for sale at all first-class newsstands. 


Chapter IV 


THE SYNOPSIS 


The photoplay synopsis tells the story of your plot in detailed narra¬ 
tive form, without the use of dialogue or useless description; conse¬ 
quently, it is a general view of your story, an abstract or summary of 
the action. We will here discuss the synopsis first because it has the 
initial position in the photoplay script and because of its importance. 

Value of the Synopsis. 

Not including plot, the synopsis is the most important part of a 
photoplay. The truth of this statement becomes evident when you 
remember that, in submitting a photoplay for sale, you send to the 
editor only a detailed synopsis of your plot and a cast of characters. 
The continuity, or scenario, is not submitted unless the company to 
, whom you are sending your work specifically gives notice of the fact 
that they want it included. Fully ninety per cent, of all producing 
companies have publicly announced that they do not want to consider 
anything but the synopsis. Therefore, when submitting your work 
for sale, send only the first and second parts of the complete photoplay 
script. This is all an editor cares to see. If your work is accepted, 
the continuity will be written in the studio by the producing company’s 
own staff of writers. Rarely, indeed, is work handled in any other 
manner. 

Since your work is either accepted or refused practically on the 
merit of synopsis alone, the latter’s importance is readily apparent. 

Some writers will conclude from the above that an extensive knowl¬ 
edge of continuity writing is not necessary. And they are right. The 
“free lance’’ writer can sell scripts as fast as he can write them without 
being an expert in the writing of continuity. But—and this is im¬ 
portant—you must have a general knowledge of continuity writing; 
otherwise, you will be apt to develop many of your plots in such a 
manner that they will not be salable. 


How To Write the Synopsis. 

Writing a good synopsis, while of paramount importance, is not a 
difficult matter. You merely present, in regular prose, a crisp, clear, 
complete outline of your plot—an outline of all the action of your 
play. Omit all conversation and useless word-pictures. Tell your 
plot in just as few words as possible. Tell everything , but do not 
waste words or time telling it. Leave out all jokes or witty sayings. 
Don’t try to be funny, brilliant or clever. Be businesslike, for all the 
editor wants is a comprehensive knowledge of your plot. Remember, 
too, that editors are busy men. Be brief. To know how to condense 
judiciously, to extract all the juice, without any of the rind or pulp, 
is as important to the photoplaywright as a knowledge of anatomy to 
the painter. 

But, in cultivating brevity, do not omit parts of your story. Don’t 
say, “While in France, Frank goes through many exciting experi- 


The Synopsis 


103 


ences.” You must tell more than that; you must relate briefly the 
action involved in those “exciting experiences.” You are not writing 
a synopsis when you say, “Frank triumphs over his enemy in a clever 
manner.” Tell how and in what manner he triumphed. In other 
words, you must describe all the action in your plot—all of the main 
events—but you must do it in a brief way. So be careful to strike 
out all repetition and superfluous adjectives and knit long sentences 
into brief ones. 

A fine literary style is not required to write a synopsis. Simple, 
common, every-day words are all you need. Many photoplay editors 
are ordinary people and might not appreciate a fine style anyway. 
Even more, well-turned phrases are not required. This does not mean 
that incorrect sentences or mis-spelled words will be tolerated. Not 
for a minute. Crude manuscripts receive slight consideration, for 
most editors take it for granted that they are the work of an illiterate, 
incapable of producing worth while ideas. Many excellent photoplays 
have never found the light, simply because the synopsis was carelessly 
written. 

Write your entire synopsis in the present tense. Don’t say, “Helen 
made her debut at the Society Ball, and instantly became the center 
of attraction.” Make it present tense. Say, “Helen MAKES her 
debut at the Society Ball, and instantly BECOMES the center of 
attraction.” Keep to the present tense all the way through. This is 
one of the most important things to remember. 

There is a certain form in which the synopsis should be written. 
The following is a good example. This is a synopsis for “The 
Countess Charming,” the Model Photoplay printed in Part III. 

THE COUNTESS CHARMING 
SYNOPSIS 

Saunders Julian, a wealthy young business man, meets Betty Lovering 
—beautiful, honest and unspoiled daughter of a social-climbing 
mother—at a Red Cross gathering in the local Country Club. 

The dictator of society, who leads the smart set, is Mrs. Esmond 
Vandergrift. In a discussion concerning Red Cross contributions, 
Saunders Julian unintentionally offends Mr. Vandergrift by defending 
the integrity of the Red Cross, denounced as “grafters” by Vandergrift, 
a self-centered “know-it-all.” Therefore, Mr. and Mrs. Vandergrift 
decide to oust the unlucky young man from society. 

Julian has promised Betty Lovering, with whom he is rapidly falling 
in love, that he will obtain a large donation for the Red Cross; but, 
since his cold reception by the Vandergrifts and by Betty’s mother, he 
realizes that the possibilities of doing this are extremely limited. 

Owing to his being barred from society, Julian swears “revenge” on 
the would-be social mentors, and decides to pose as a Russian Countess, 
making use of his ability to impersonate women, and a large wardrobe 
of women’s clothes which he has used in amateur theatricals. As the 
“countess” he rents a large estate near the Vandergrifts, not far from 
the Country Club, and is amused to find himself not only re-admitted 
to society, but one of the most popular personages of the place. Even 
Mrs. Vandergrift herself is deceived, and invites the “countess” to 
many of her most exclusive social functions. 

Once fairly established, Julian proceeds to make good his promise to 
Betty to collect for the Red Cross and is astonished herself—no, him¬ 
self—at the results. He “steals” one man’s wallet, another’s valuable 
scarfpin, and, from Mrs. Vandergrift herself, he takes a priceless neck- 


104 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


lace of pearls. Also, as the “countess,” he meets Betty who does not 
recognize her lover, and proceeds to sing the praises of Saunders 
Julian so highly that Betty becomes jealous. 

The various thefts are soon discovered and a detective sent for to 
find out who is doing the thieving. Suspicion points directly to the 
“Countess,” and the evidence is strong enough to warrant her arrest. 
The arrest is planned for the Country Club dance; but, just as the 
officers are about to seize the unknown countess, he turns out the 
lights, knocks down the officers, and makes good his escape. 

Through Julian’s friend and sponsor, Dr. Cavendish, it is announced 
that the “Countess” is severely hurt and on the verge of death. As the 
detectives wait outside, the “Countess” DIES and Saunders Julian 
appears. Betty, remorseful for her jealousy of the “Countess,” seeks to 
place some flowers on her coffin; but, before she can be prevented, the 
double personality is exposed and the two are happy. 

How Long to Make the Synopsis. 

The beginner usually is at a loss to know just how many words are 
used in a synopsis. The average writer, wishing to do full justice to 
his plot, proceeds to tell it very voluminously; and, since the acceptance 
or refusal of the script depends so largely on the synopsis, the writer 
really should not be restricted to any particular length. To be ex¬ 
plained clearly, some plots require many more words than others. 

In your zeal to be as brief as possible, do not be too concise. An 
incomplete synopsis is, in most particulars, even more objectionable 
than one too long, for the latter at least leaves no phase of the plot to 
be guessed at. 

Though the synopsis must fully record the plot concisely and per¬ 
suasively, there is no fixed limit to the number of words to be employed. 
The average five- or six-reel play is generally outlined in from four 
hundred to eight hundred words. 

Make your synopsis just as short as you can and still tell your story 
in a clear, comprehensive, entertaining manner. Do not omit any¬ 
thing having a direct bearing on your story, but tell it all in as few 
words as possible. Do this: Imagine you are telling your synopsis to 
the photoplay editor himself. Write it, then, just as you would tell 
it to him—remembering constantly that he is a busy man. 

In your effort to make your synopsis brief, do not write a wild 
scramble of words having little or no reference to your story. And, 
if you are in doubt whether you should use four hundred or eight 
hundred words, use the greater number. Be on the safe side. Clarity 
is more important than brevity. 

Take plenty of time. It is better to re-write your synopsis a dozen 
times than to send it out unsatisfactory in any little detail. 

While synopsis writing is not difficult, it nevertheless is vitally 
important, and the beginner cannot be too watchful. Synopses should 
be models of clearness and brevity. 

You need three things to sell a script easily: a good plot, a well- 
written synopsis, a satisfactory title. Plot, synopsis, title—the “eternal 
three” of successful photoplay writing. Their importance cannot be 
overestimated. 

Spend most of your time on your plots! 

Do not be satisfied with anything but a perfect title! 

And do not neglect the synopsis! It neatly “brings home the bacon” 
if your plot is salable. That’s sufficient recommendation. 


Chapter V 


THE CAST OF CHARACTERS 
How To Write The Cast. 

When writing the synopsis, first note down the names of all your 
principal characters before you begin to outline the plot. Then, as 
you complete your synopsis, record each additional character’s name 
as soon as he or she appears. 

All of your important characters should be described briefly in your 
cast, so that the editor will know at a glance what type of characters 
they are. 

The cast is necessary and important because it gives the editor a 
clear idea of how many people are needed to produce your script. 
At a glance he knows whether his company is capable of producing 
your work. 

It is best to make the cast as explanatory as possible. This will be 
a great help to the editor. You should give the approximate age of the 
characters, general appearance, occupation, characteristics, and the 
type of part he or she is to play. Of course, there are no special re¬ 
strictions to be placed upon the description of your characters. A 
brief description of from three to twelve words is generaly sufficient. 
If you bring out the characteristics of your people clearly in the synop¬ 
sis, the probabilities are that you will not have to describe them so 
fully in the cast. 

Deal with your most important character first. Eliminate all un¬ 
necessary words in the cast. Some writers give the scenes in which 
their characters appear. This is not necessary. 

The following cast of characters for the Model Play, “The Countess 
Charming,” will give you a correct idea of just how to write the cast. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Saunders Julian 1 . , . . T i- t-i • 

Countess Raffelslci J a wealth y y° un £ business man.Julian Eltinge 

Betty Lovering, youthful, honest and unspoiled.Florence Vidor 

Mrs. Lovering, Betty’s social-climbing mother.Edythe Chapman 

Dr. John Cavendish, Julian’s friend and sponsor.Tully Marshall 

Esmond Vandergrift, President of the Biscuit Trust, the 

Board of Trade, and a Bank or two....Gustave von Seyfertitz 

Mrs. Vandergrift, leader of the “Smart Set”.Mabel VanBuren 

Detective Boyle. Billy Elmer 

Soto, Julian’s valet. George Kuwa 

The Maid.Mrs. George Kuwa 

How Many Characters to Use. 

The beginner is apt to use too many characters. The common tend¬ 
ency is to introduce a great number of different people, employ them 
for a little while, then let them disappear, without explaining why 










106 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


they left or where they went. This is contrary to the correct method. 

A photoplay should be developed with the use of just as few char¬ 
acters as are absolutely necessary for the actual needs of the plot. Do 
not introduce various people for ornament. Characters in “non- 
essential” occupations are not wanted. Every extra character in your 
production requires the outlay of no small amount of additional money. 
And since, in producing a new writer’s work, any company is “taking 
a chance,” so to speak, you had better make their risk as small as 
possible. 

If you will go over the rough draft of your synopsis before it is 
written in final form, you may find that, without injuring your plot 
in any way, one of your characters can easily do the work you may 
have assigned to two or more. Your duty is plain; use the fewer 
number, even though it requires a little extra work on your part. 

Large casts are not only expensive, but tend to retard the action of 
your plot. It takes much time and many feet of film to introduce 
elaborate casts. Furthermore, the more characters there are in a 
( story, the more difficult it becomes for the audience to understand the 
plot and the relationship of the different characters. It is difficult 
for them to tell “who’s who.” 

But, in trying to economize, do not go to the other extreme of not 
using enough characters. It is possible to write a photoplay around 
one character, but this is not work for the beginner. If in doubt 
whether to use six or eight characters, however, limit your cast to the 
smaller number. 

When you use “extras,” such as soldiers, cowboys, people on the 
street, and the like, do not specify the exact number to be used. Leave 
that to the producer’s discretion. 

The main thing to remember in planning a cast is to use just as few 
characters as possible. 

Characters and Character Study. 

The photoplaywright should carefully study character. The real 
task of creating flesh-and-blood characters depends, in a large measure, 
on the actors who take part in the production of your script and the 
studio producing it. But the highest salaried actors, the finest di¬ 
rectors and the most expensive accessories cannot make your charac¬ 
ters interesting if you have failed to make them so. 

Therefore, you should create real people. This must be done largely 
by action, for you are not allowed to use detailed word description 
as in story writing. Every little thing your characters do, then, must 
mean something with respect to their natures and motives. And there 
must be no doubt in the mind of the audience as to just what types 
your different characters are. 

This does not mean that every act of your hero must be heroic. It 
simply means that, if you have established the impression that a certain 
character is a particular type, you must not let him do things which 
will contradict the former impression, and thus confuse the audience. 

Study all sorts and conditions of people. Carefully note the traits 
and habits of everyone with whom you come in contact. See how they 
react to different events. Study their moods, peculiarities, weaknesses, 


The Cast of Characters 


107 


strong points. Find out, if you can, just what part of their character 
is a result of environment and association. This will greatly help you 
create real people in your plays. 

The first impression a character creates in the mind of the audience 
is often a lingering and important one. Hence, you should be ex¬ 
tremely careful to make first impressions significant. Just as soon as a 
character is introduced, show him carrying out some action correctly 
exhibiting his nature. If your heroine, Dorothy, is a worthy, am¬ 
bitious, determined young musician, it won’t do to show her in the 
opening scene comfortably reclining in negligee and eating chocolates. 
That might be a pretty way to start your picture, but it would give 
the audience a wrong impression of Dorothy. Better show her prac¬ 
ticing at the piano. 

The clothes of your characters go far toward portraying their real 
character and station in life. A policeman, maid, messenger or clergy¬ 
man are identified by their dress. Likewise, if a character wears 
“sporty” clothes, we do not need to be told of his elastic morals. In 
fact, clothes often clearly indicate character. 

Environment also helps to identify characters. If Mr. Jones is 
first shown in a costly-equipped office, graciously concluding an inter¬ 
view with a well-dressed client, we need hardly be told that he is a 
prosperous business man or professional. 

If Mr. Jones scolds his stenographer for a slight mistake, we know 
he is unreasonable and mean tempered. Every little movement means 
something. Study people’s actions. Learn to delineate character 
unmistakably by the big and little things your characters do. 

Naming Characters. 

Shakespeare said that a rose by another name would be just as 
sweet. In fact, he thought there wasn’t much in a name. This is one 
instance where the great writer was wrong. Experience has proved 
that there have been at least a great many dollars in the names of some 
photoplays. 

There is a great amount of psychology in names. It will be worth 
your time to study them. Many writers are able to make you like 
or dislike their characters, in a measure, just as soon as you hear their 
names. Dickens and Hawthorne were experts in making the name 
describe the character. Isn’t it easy to tell that “Mr. Gathergold” is 
a money grabber? 

Some inexperienced writers seem to enjoy calling their hero Apollo, 
or Reginald, while their heroine blossoms out handicapped with Mag¬ 
nolia or Evalina. Such names are the identification marks of inex¬ 
perience. Do not use them. Can you imagine any reasonable person 
wanting to follow the antics of an Apollo? 

Different names suggest different stations in life. The tendency 
among many would-be writers, who want to make the character seem 
aristocratic, is to call them Van der This or Van Something Else. The 
reason for this is not clear. Surely there is nothing in the “Van” to 
elevate the character. Richard Harding Davis once wrote a story 
about a fair sort of chap whom he called Van Bibber. Can it be 
imitation that has brought about this Van-pest? By all means do not 


108 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


handicap your characters with such detestable names. If you knew 
how irritating it is to an editor, you would not do it. So, if you have 
to choose between calling your character Vanderbilt or Smith, make 
it Smith! Just for the editor’s sake! 

There is great power and beauty in a well-chosen name. You 
should not use names appearing in popular plays or publications, 
however, even though they are very attractive; for readers often 
ascribe certain characteristics to certain names and are liable to be 
prejudiced against your characters. Remember that a bad name sug¬ 
gests a bad character; and, if you try to make the public believe other¬ 
wise, you will have a difficult time. 

Do not go to the extreme of making your names describe certain 
characteristics of your people. Don’t name the kind old gentleman 
Mr. Goodman. Don’t label the sly villain Mr. Fox. True, a great 
many plays have been produced with absurd names for their char¬ 
acters. The fact that the work was produced, however, was not due 
to the absurd names, but to the strong plot; and, if the characters had 
been better treated with respect to their names, the play would have 
been more pleasing. Use every-day names, though not the extremely 
common. Ordinary names suggest real living characters, and sincer¬ 
ity is what you aim for. 

Women are more responsive to names than men, so the names of 
your characters will have much to do with the effect of your play on 
the feminine public. 

One thing is certain regarding names; there is a fashion in them. 
People born a number of years ago were frequently called Martha, 
Hannah, Mary Ann or Jane. Then the style changed, and we found 
such names as Bessy, Hattie, and Nellie becoming popular. They 
were in turn speedily replaced with such romantic names as Gwen¬ 
dolyn, Gladys, Guinevere. The tendency recently has been to revert 
to really old-fashioned names, or a combination of the new and the 
old, such as Elizabeth, Margaret or Betty Jane. Follow the style, 
if you can keep pace. 

It will be wise for you to study all types of names carefully. Be 
sure to take great pains to christen the “child of your brain” with a 
careful regard for the feelings of the editor who is to become its foster- 
father. Unless you are an unusually clever writer, you will have 
enough trouble writing and selling your work without handicapping 
it with impossible names for your characters. 


Chapter VI 


THE SCENE-PLOT 

As indicated in a former chapter, the scene-plot is the third division 
of the complete photoplay manuscript as produced in the studio. The 
scene-plot consists of a list of all the different scenes, both interior and 
terior, used in the photoplay, together with an indication of the 
number of scenes photographed in each set. 

Inasmuch as the scene-plot is almost always written in the studio, 
after the script has been purchased, the new writer is not particularly 
interested in it. The subject is therefore discussed briefly in this 
chapter, in the hope that the reader may some day secure a position as 
staff writer or director, and then find the following information of 
great value. 

The division of this chapter entitled, “Limiting Sets,” is important 
to you, however. Read it carefully. 

The Purpose and Use of the Scene-Plot. 

The scene-plot quickly shows the director just what different 
“locations” are necessary to produce a manuscript. This is important 
for him to know, for the production of many pictures requires un¬ 
usual scenic effects, often necessitating special trips to foreign locali¬ 
ties. To film some plays it is necessary to take an entire company of 
players and cameramen from one city to another, from one state to 
another, and even from one country to another. In producing “A 
Daughter of the Gods,” featuring Annette Kellerman, the Fox Film 
Corporation sent Herbert Brenon to Jamaica with several score of 
actors, actresses and helpers. Here they spent thousands of dollars— 
Fox claimed a million—in salaries and various expenses to produce the 
desired results. They even went so far as to build their own refrig¬ 
erating plant in order to keep their film constantly at a fixed cool 
temperature. The scene-plot of “A Daughter of the Gods” must 
have indicated much of this expense to the director, although Mr. 
Brenon was allowed much of a “free hand.” 

The expression scene-plot is borrowed from the theatre. The 
scene-plot in regular theatrical work consists of a list of the different 
scenes, and shows where the different drops, foliage, cut drops, and 
the like, are located, and how and where the various pieces of scenery 
are to be placed on the stage. The theatrical scene-plot is used by 
the stage carpenter, who arranges the different stage settings. 

In photoplay productions the scene-plot serves a similar purpose. 
Even though considerable artificial scenery is not used in photoplays, 
the scene-plot is none the less valuable. Instead of being handled by a 
stage carpenter, however, it is used by the director, who supervises 
the making of each photoplay. He tells each character exactly what 
he must do. He is the man, then, who interprets your manuscript 
from beginning to end. He must know what articles of furniture 
appear in each scene, what setting is to be used, if it is an exterior or 
interior, and so on. This information the scene-plot gives him. 


110 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Accordingly, the scene plot consists of a numerical list of the differ¬ 
ent settings required to produce the play in question, and each different 
setting is followed by the numbers of the different scenes in which 
that setting is used. The various settings are divided into two classes, 
depending on whether they are produced indoors or taken in the open. 
Those produced inside of the studio are grouped under the heading 
“Interiors”; those produced in the open are listed as “Exteriors.” 

Being a list of the different settings and properties, the scene-plot 
obviously must be written in the studio after the photoplay continuity 
has been written. Consequently, the new writer need not concern 
himself greatly about scene-plot writing. 

A Model Scene-Plot. 

In order to give you an absolutely correct idea of just how a scene- 
plot is prepared, we print below one prepared for “The Countess 
Charming,” the Model Play reproduced in Part III of this book. 


1 . 

2 . 

3 . 

4 . 

5 . 

6 . 

7 . 

8 . 

9 . 


10 . 

11 . 


12 . 

13 . 

14 . 

15 . 

16 . 
17 . 


18 . 


1 

2 . 

3 . 

4 . 

5 . 

6 . 

7 . 

8 . 

9 . 

10 . 

11 . 

12 . 

13 . 


SCENE-PLOT 


Club Lounge 

Corner of Club 
Corner of Lovering Hall 
Corner of Mrs. Van’s 
Morning Room 
Julian’s Library 
Betty’s Boudoir 
Beside Crack in Door 
Julian’s Bedroom 
Countess’ Drawing Room 

Ladies’ Cloak Room 
Countess’ Boudoir 


Bath House 
Mrs. Van’s Boudoir 
Countess’ Hallway 
Club Dancing Room 
Conservatory 
Entrance to Con¬ 
servatory 

Beside Conservatory 
Garden Door 

Exterior Club (terrace 
or piazza) 

Terrace at Betty’s House 
Vandergrift Garden 
Club Lawn 
Club Porch 
Club Drive 
First Golf Tee 

Golf Links 

Countess’ Back Yard 
Police Station 
Betty’s Home 
Lovering Doorstep 
Vandergrift Home 


Interiors 

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 

18 - 19 - 20 - 78 - 81 - 82 - 88 - 89 - 90 - 91 - 92-93 

22 

25 - 27 - 180 - 182-154 

26 - 37 - 247-249 

28 - 30 - 31 - 33 - 34-38 

29 - 235 
32 

35 - 36 - 39-40 

47 - 48 - 179 - 181 - 183 - 188 - 190 - 191 - 233 - 234 - 

253 - 255 - 256 - 257 - 258 - 259 - 260 - 261-262 

83 - 84 - 85-86 

100 - 102 - 103 - 187 - 189 - 194 - 196 - 197 - 198 - 199 - 

200 - 201 - 202 - 236 - 239 - 240 - 242 - 243 - 244 - 245 - 

240 - 248 - 250-251 

138 - 169 - 171-173 

142 - 148 - 155 - 156-158 

195 - 238 - 241-252 

209 - 210 - 211 - 224 - 229-231 

212 - 213 - 214 - 216 - 217 - 219-226 

215-222 

218 - 220 - 221-223 

Exteriors 

18^-21 

41 - 42-43 

44 - 45-46 

49 - 50 - 52 - 204 - 205 - 206-208 

51 - 87-207 

53 - 54 - 55 - 56 - 57 - 58 - 59 - 60-225 

61 - 63 - 64 - 65 - 67 - 68 - 69 - 70 - 71 - 72 - 73 - 74 - 75 - 

76-77 

62 

66 

79-80 

94 - 95 - 96 - 97-98 

99 

101 


The Photoplay Plot 


111 


14. 

Lawn at Billowcrest 

104-105-110-112-163-166 

15. 

Billowcrest Porch 

106-107-108-109-174-175-176-177-178 

16. 

Bath Houses 

111-114-159 

17. 

Beach 

113-117-118-119-120-121-122-124-125-127- 

128-129-130-131-132-133-134-135-137-140- 

153 

18. 

Porch at Billowcrest 

115 

19. 

Shrubbery 

116-123-126-144-145-147 

20. 

Waterside 

136 

21. 

Side of Bathhouse 

139-165-168-170-172 

22. 

Tool House 

141-143-162-164 

23. 

Near Fruit Tree 

149-150-151-157 

24. 

Garden 

160 

25. 

Exterior House 

146-152-154-161 

26. 

Bathhouse 

167 

27. 

Countess’ Gate 

184-186 

28. 

Countess’ House 

185 

29. 

Julian’s Home 

192-193 

30. 

Lovering Home 

203 

31. 

Front of Club 

227-228-230-232 

32. 

Corner of Terrace 

237 


Limiting Sets. 

One word of caution slightly relative to the scene-plot will not 
be amiss. It is the tendency of many beginners to use a multitude 
of different scenes in their plays. This may be due to the fact that 
the average beginner often wants his characters to travel over ex¬ 
tended areas. Whatever the cause, never make the mistake of requir¬ 
ing the use of a great number of different settings in any of your 
manuscripts. Such plays are immediately rejected. Producers do 
not want film plays requiring so many different scenes. 

Many excellent five- and six-reel manuscripts have been produced 
with only eighteen or twenty interior settings. Of course, it is much 
easier to use a great many scenes in a manuscript, because it thus is 
possible to develop the plot with much less work. But you will find 
that, if you use too many different settings in your play, it will be 
difficult to sell. You need not be so sparing in your use of exterior 
settings, however, as it does not cost a great deal to utilize nature. 

Avoid the use of a great deal of costly paraphernalia in the working 
out of your script. Do not let your hero buy a yacht and burn it up, 
or wreck a couple of automobiles before breakfast. This may some¬ 
times prove animating to a certain class of people, but it is a little too 
exciting for the producer who has to supply the material. 

In short, when developing your plot, try to confine the action of 
your characters to a limited area, so as not to be extravagant in 
scenes and settings. 


Chapter VII 


THE CONTINUITY OR SCENARIO 

The continuity, or scenario, is the fourth division of the com¬ 
plete photoplay script—as used by the director in the studio. In 
the continuity, the plot is outlined in action, just as it appears on the 
screen; all reading matter is also given. The Model Play in Part III 
of this book is the continuity for “The Countess Charming”; it is 
the working scenario, exactly as used by the Famous Players-Lasky 
Corporation to produce the above-named Paramount Picture. Be¬ 
fore proceeding with this chapter, carefully examine “The Countess 
Charming.” 

In the early days of the motion picture, writers labored arduously 
over their play, developing its plot both as a synopsis and as a 
detailed scenario—just as it was to appear on the screen. In other 
words, before one could submit a script for sale he was compelled to 
write a synopsis, a cast of characters, a scene-plot, and continuity. 
This quickly proved unsatisfactory. Editors soon discovered that a 
writer might be exceedingly clever at plot-building, but hopeless as a 
continuity writer; while, on the other hand, some of the best known 
continuity writers are poor plot builders. So photoplay writing has 
become a double art; one class of writers build plots and write them 
in synopsis form; another class take the plots and adapt them to the 
screen in continuity form. The two types of writing are entirely 
different—the one creative, the other technical. Working in har¬ 
mony, they produce the ultimate in photoplays. 

The beginner need not puzzle over continuity writing; it is done 
in the studio by staff writers especially trained in, and fitted for, 
the work. So the writing of photoplays has become a simple matter. 
All you need do is submit a synopsis of your plot and a cast of char¬ 
acters. 

It is desirable for the beginner to have a knowledge of continuity 
writing, however, as it may help him understand the limitations of 
the photoplay. 

The First Step In Continuity Writing — Visualization. 

One of the most important phases of continuity writing is the 
power of visualization—the act of forming a mental picture of the 
things to be presented on the screen. You must be able to picture 
your story in your own mind as it will appear on the screen; you must 
be able to see every action you put into your work. Action is the all- 
important requisite of the photoplay. It is what your characters do 
that determines the value of your work; and, in order to make your 
characters act properly, you must first be able to see in your own mind 
just what they are going to do. Unless the continuity writer has a 
clear idea of the action himself, he cannot make the director under¬ 
stand. 

Let us presume that you have built a plot possessing all the require¬ 
ments of a salable idea. You begin to write the continuity. But are 


The Continuity or Scenario 


113 


you able to visualize your play? Can you close your eyes and see 
just how it will appear on the screen. If not, you will surely fall 
flat in the writing soon after you begin. And the chances are that 
you will continue to the finish along the line of least resistance—the 
result being absolutely impossible to produce, no matter how good the 
basic idea. 

So the successful continuity writer is the one with the picture eye. 
You must visualize each scene so you will know just how it will 
appear on the screen. You must see the play in action before you can 
begin to write the continuity. 

Cultivate visualization. Find a quiet spot where you will not be 
disturbed by anyone or anything. Close your eyes and concentrate 
on your play. See it in your own mind. Don’t dream. Visualize! 
You will be surprised how easily you will promptly develop the 
faculty to such an extent that you can visualize anywhere—even on 
the street—no matter how intense the activity around you. 

How and When to Introduce Characters. 

Producers used to print the entire cast on the screen before the 
play started; that is, immediately after the title of the script had 
been flashed before the audience. This method was unsatisfactory 
because it was an exceedingly difficult matter for the audience to get 
the different characters clearly identified in their own mind before 
they saw any of the action of the play, especially in the brief space of 
time allotted to the exhibition of the cast. The proper time to show 
a character’s name and identify him on the screen is when he first 
appears in the action of the play. 

In introducing your characters, it is advisable to use a few brief 
words of description to help the audience gain an insight into their 
dispositions and character. For example, Betty, in “The Countess 
Charming,” is described as “youthfully honest and unspoiled enough 
to be touched.” The character of her mother is well brought out in 
the brief description, one “to whom the Social Drift of the Moment 
is Law.” 

Keep your chief characters on the screen long enough when first 
presented to let everyone become well acquainted with them. 

Every character in your play should be introduced just as quickly 
as possible, and should instantly be identified in the mind of the 
audience. Nothing is more irritating than to see a character whose 
relation to other characters is not clear. The usual method of intro¬ 
ducing and identifying characters is to insert a sub-title. Turn to 
sub-title five of “The Countess Charming.” Here the members of 
the North Shore Country Club are quickly identified. Notice how 
promptly the author identifies the heroine, Betty, in the very first 
scene, sub-title seven. Her mother is promptly identified in scene 
two. The hero is presented in scene three. Not a moment’s time is 
lost. The other characters follow at the proper time in quick order ; 
there is no confusion or misunderstanding as to who they are. 

How to Turn a Plot Into Action. 

Many writers make the mistake of wasting too much time on pre¬ 
liminaries. They use up many scenes without getting down to busi- 


114 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


ness. They bore the audience with a number of incidents having 
little or no connection with their plot, whereas they should strike to 
the very heart of the subject at once. 

Notice in “The Countess Charming” how little time is lost in 
beginning the action. The theme of the story is summed up in sub¬ 
title four; the preliminary situation at the opening of the play is 
briefly outlined in sub-title five. The natures of the leading char¬ 
acters in the play are quickly brought out. Before seven brief scenes 
have passed, the author has established the fact that Betty and Saun¬ 
ders are in love. By the time fourteen short scenes have flickered 
by, the author has already established opposition between Saunders 
and the Vandergrifts. The play is well under way. The next task 
is to acquaint the audience with the aims of the main characters, and 
promptly introduce the opposition. This is done without delay. 

So the plot should begin in the first scene, if possible. Don’t 
timidly wade into the action of your play. Plunge in! 

Action should begin in an unaffected manner and progress easily 
from one scene to another. Study carefully the working scenario of 
“The Countess Charming.” Note how smoothly the action flows in 
each scene. Every act of the characters tends to reveal their motives, 
their inner nature, in addition to furthering the action of the plot. 
Notice how smoothly the action glides from one scene to another 
without pain or effort. 

Remember there must be sequence in the action. As previously 
stated, the events in your plot need not follow each other in chrono¬ 
logical order, but they must follow in logical sequence. The action 
of your play must progress smoothly, logically, interestingly from the 
first scene to the second, from the second to the third, and so on to 
the end. Each scene must be the logical outcome of the preceding 
one, in a broad sense, though the continuous trend of the action may 
be temporarily halted to create suspense. Do not write a single scene 
for effect or for time. If there is no good reason for any action 
promptly eject it. 

In your faithful endeavor to make the action in your manuscript 
advance as rapidly and evenly as possible, do not make the mistake of 
hurrying too fast. Do not imagine that something sensational, some 
startling new development of your plot, must take place every mo¬ 
ment. Strengthen the possibilities of your plot wherever possible, 
but do not kill a man every two or three scenes just to liven things up. 
The action should not jump from one thrill to another. 

Don’t let your imagination run riot. Don’t let the action of your 
play run away with the plot. Make it smooth and rapid—but not 
too rapid. 

How to Use Sub-Titles and Inserts. 

Sub-titles are the words and sentences scattered throughout the 
action of a photoplay and thrown on the screen. All sub-titles may be 
divided into two general classes: spoken titles, or actual quotations; 
and explanatory titles, or descriptive titles, as they are sometimes 
called. Sub-title five of “The Countess Charming” is an explanatory 
title. Sub-title six is a spoken title, and as such it is labled. 

A descriptive title is generally used to introduce a character; to 


The Continuity or Scenario 


115 


explain action which otherwise would take up too much film foot¬ 
age ; to explain action not clear in itself; or to cover an elapse of time. 
Sub-title seven is used to introduce a character. Sub-title nine 
briefly explains action which otherwise would consume considerable 
footage if actually worked out in the play. In scene nine, a matron 
and her companion are seen gossiping, but their actions do not com¬ 
pletely reveal exactly what they are talking about. Therefore sub¬ 
title eleven is introduced, and the whole thing is made clear. In scene- 
twenty-seven there is a good example of a sub-title used to cover an 
elapse of time. Sub-title thirty-eight also serves the same purpose. 

The “insert” is matter, or objects, other than sub-titles, inserted 
in a scene, and briefly interrupting the action of the play in order to 
clarify its meaning. A fine example will be found in scene two 
hundred thirty-seven of “The Countess Charming.” 

Do not make the mistake of telling something in a sub-title and 
then repeating it in action. In fact, you never should use a sub-title 
if it can be explained in action. It might be well to note that the use 
of explanatory titles in the middle of a scene is quite unusual, while a 
spoken title generally comes in the middle. It is customary for the 
explanatory title to precede the scene. 

Every sub-title introduced requires for its exhibition several feet of 
film, the exact amount depending on the sub-title’s length. This 
naturally subtracts from the total number of feet remaining for the 
picture itself. On account of this, you should content yourself with 
just as few sub-titles as you can in order to save for the action of the 
play every possible foot of film. If possible, make your plot clear 
without using any sub-titles; for the use of one is the frank confession 
that you are not able to bring out certain phases of your plot without 
resorting to the written word. 

Keep your sub-titles as short and as crisp as possible. Fifteen or 
twenty words at the most is plenty. Sometimes it is not possible to 
condense, yet you should exert every effort to do so. 

One very important reason why few sub-titles should be used is 
the fact that the patrons of moving picture theatres consist of a motley 
gathering of various nationalities, many of whom are unable to read 
English. Therefore, if much of the action of the play is told by sub¬ 
titles, the audience fails to enjoy the picture by missing the point 
entirely. So, if you can bring out any phase of the plot in action 
without wasting too much time, omit the sub-title. Try to make your 
script just as intelligible to the new Italian emigrant as it is to the 
college professor. 

Many new writers fall into the habit of using explanatory sub¬ 
titles in every scene. In fact, I have seen photoplays by beginners in 
which the action of every scene was explained in a sub-title preceding 
the scene. 

If, however, you can use a sub-title to advantage, do not hesitate 
one moment in writing it. An artistic sub-title often increases the 
value of a play. Some of Mary Pickford’s productions are greatly 
increased in value by the clever sub-titles written in them by Miss 
Cooper, scenarist for Miss Pickford. What is more, a clever title often 
makes a picture. This was strikingly the case in “The Sixteenth 


116 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Wife,” a melodrama which Vitagraph retitled into a farce—a big suc¬ 
cess due to clever sub-titles. Use sub-titles when necessary, but use 
them discreetly. 

Try to avoid such monotonous expressions as, “The next day,” 
“Two years later,” “The following day,” and “Six months later.” 
This type of sub-title is like the speech labels of some of the past 
story writers, who always ended a piece of dialogue with, “said she,” 
or “said he.” Try to get variety in the wording of your titles. Study 
carefully all of the titles used in “The Countess Charming.” They 
are excellent examples of first-class workmanship. 

In your efforts to make your sub-titles short and crisp, do not make 
them vague and indefinite. Confusing sub-titles will ruin the best 
photoplay ever written. The audience must understand everything. 
Aim to write your sub-title so clearly that it must be understood. Also, 
it is possible to use too few inserts, to omit making a certain action 
clear, or to fail to indicate the passage of time. This must be watched 
carefully. 

It has often been said that the sub-title has no place in the photo¬ 
play; that it is a “child without a parent.” This is probably an ex¬ 
aggeration. A photoplay without a sub-title would be somewhat 
like a stage play without conversation—who would care to see one? 
To use the words of a writer in the New York Tribune : “ ‘Sumurun’ 
was all very well, but was it as good entertainment as ‘Tea for Three’ 
or ‘Sleeping Partners’? 

“Some titles jump out and hit you. They never could seem a part 
of the story. They are the so-called decorative titles, done by mis¬ 
guided persons in their best Spencerian style. They have large curlicue 
capitals and sometimes wreaths of daisies or doves holding olive 
branches in their beaks. Titles should be so unobtrusive that one does 
not realize he is reading printed words. 

“The trouble is that not enough attention is paid to the titles in a 
picture. What heroine could ever live this down, for instance? 
' Brother, will you speak to my fiance and try to ascertain the cause of 
his coldness. Things have not been going smoothly of late between 
he and I / And yet we read that very title, supposedly spoken by one 
of the stars, and the picture was made by a well-known film corpora¬ 
tion. 

“And why do so many title writers yearn for the past tense? All 
of their remarks take the reminiscent form—they embrace retrospec¬ 
tion and refuse to relinquish it. ‘ Mary Brown was a beautiful young 
teacher* ‘The cabin stood on the edge of the desert.* ‘Robert loved 
his mother s maid, who was a pure and lovely girl ’ 

Of course there are cases where we admit that titles are superfluous. 
It isn’t necessary to say anything about it. All too frequently Mary 
isn’t beautiful or young, but if she is people like to discover such little 
things for themselves. Let the pictures also speak for themselves. 

“But if title writers insist upon usurping their rights, why not do it 
in the present tense? We certainly need titles, but we certainly need 
title writers, too, or perhaps final censors with, first of all, a sense of 
humor, then a knowledge of human nature, a knowledge of grammar, 
punctuation, the use of quotation marks, and who have taken a com¬ 
plete course in letter writing. 


The Continuity or Scenario 


117 


“Also, how often does a royal fiancee sign herself ‘Princess Sonia’ 
to a tender missive or Lydia Van Peyster write to ‘Friend Paul’ 
inviting him to dinner and signing herself ‘Mrs. Van Peyster’! 
‘ ‘Tis true, ‘tis pity, and pity ’tis ’tis true’.” 

The Close-up and the Semi-Close-up. 

A Close-up is a scene photograph with the camera near the object 
or action photographed. The Semi-close-up is a scene in which the 
camera is not close enough to the object, or action, to be a Close-up, 
yet is not distant enough to be a Long-shot. The Semi-close-up, then, 
is “in between” a Long-shot and a Close-up; it is a long Close-up or 
a short Long-shot. 

The Close-up is nothing more than a close view of an object or 
an action. Formerly it was called a “bust,” and was used to obtain 
a near view of the head and shoulders of a character. But to-day a 
close view of anything—head or hand, face or shoulders, foot or any 
part of the body, or anything in action—is called a Close-up. As 
previously explained, a still object—a newspaper, book or telegram— 
is called an insert. 

The Semi-close-up is generally used to show a close view of two or 
more people—when a close-up would not be necessary or would not 
show them sufficiently to advantage. It is also used to bring out 
details of action—a thing the Long-shot often does not do. 

A few years ago it was thought necessary to show the full figures 
of all the characters in every scene. D. W. Griffith thought a play 
would be more intetresting if more detailed action were brought 
out. He conceived the idea of the Close-up. Now, if a directtor 
is in doubt, he always brings the camera as close to the object as 
possible. 

There are many examples of the Close-up in “The Countess 
Charming.” See scenes two and six. The Semi-close-up is well 
illustrated in scenes seven, nine and forty-three. 

The Iris, Dissolve and Lap-Dissolve. 

The first scene of most photoplays usually begins with the screen 
dark; gradually the scene appears, constantly becoming larger until 
the full scene has unfolded, somewhat as though we were viewing it 
through eyes slowly opening. This used to be called the “Fade-In”; 
to-day it is termed “Iris In.” The name is derived from the iris 
diaphragm, an adjustable device for regulating the aperture of the 
lens of a camera. The action of the iris diaphragm somewhat resem¬ 
bles the action of the iris of an eye. Hence its name. 

At the end of a play, the final scene often disappears slowly into 
darkness. This is termed “Iris Out”; formerly it was called “Fade 
Out.” 

Scene one, among many others in “The Countess Charming,” shows 
the Iris In; scene two hundred sixty-two, the Iris Out. 

The Iris In and Iris Out are also used to show an elapse of time, 
often with the sub-title, as in scenes twenty-seven and twenty-eight; 
and again without the sub-title, as in scenes forty-six and forty-seven. 
Generally the Iris In is used in a scene if the Iris Out was used in the 
preceding scene. If, however, a sub-title follows the Iris Out, it is 
not absolutely necessary to use the Iris In. 


118 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


The Iris is also used to emphasize a person or thing. In this case 
the iris diaphragm is closed until only a small portion of the scene 
is discernable. 

The Dissolve In and Dissolve Out are the same as the Iris, except 
that the scene disappears into a haze, or mist, or emerges from it. Or 
one scene may “dissolve into” another and “dissolve out” again into 
the preceding scene, as in scene two hundred one of “The Countess 
Charming.” But this has another name. It is termed Lap-Dissolve. 
This effect is obtained by lapping the end of the negative of one scene 
over the beginning of the next scene. When this is pictured on the 
screen, the first scene gradually becomes indistinct; but, before it has 
entirely disappeared, another scene appears. And vice versa. 

Double Exposure. 

You have perhaps often witnessed scenes, especially in comedies, 
in which the character walked along the edge of a sky-scraper—a 
hazardous, not to say impossible, procedure. Such a scene is easily 
made, without risk, in this manner: The camera is first taken to the 
top of the building and a scene is photographed. Then the camera is 
taken to the studio, the film is rewound, and a scene is taken on the 
same film showing the comedian walking as though on the building— 
but all the while in perfect safety. This is a useful trick; it is called 
Double Exposure. 

Flash , Vision and Reverse Action. 

The Flash is a scene appearing on the screen only for a brief time. 
It is, then, merely a fleeting glimpse of a regular scene. Suppose you 
have shown a letter on the screen in, say, scene ten. The audience 
is given plenty of time to read it in this scene. Suppose it must be 
shown again, say in scene forty—perhaps this time in the hands of 
the recipient. This time it is “flashed” on the screen only long 
enough for the audience to recognize it as the letter in scene ten. The 
flash is used to save time, film footage, and to speed up the action. 

You have often witnessed scenes in which, to a character in medita¬ 
tion, comes a vision of some person or thing. This is properly called 
a Vision. The effect is obtained by making a double exposure, already 
explained. 

Have you ever witnessed a play in which a character jumped from 
the ground to the top of a building—an impossible feat? If so, 
you doubtless wondered how it was done. The character jumps from 
the building to the ground, or, if it is high, is let down by invisible 
wires. During the process, the scene is photographed—but the camera 
is running BACKWARD. When the film is completed and run 
properly in the picture, the effect is that of the character jumping 
irom the ground to the top of the building. This is termed Reverse 
Action. 

The Cut-Back. 

The Cut-back is an arrangement of scenes whereby the action in a 
play is interrupted to show another scene, or set of scenes, and then 
returned to later. The Cut-back is invaluable for many reasons; it is 
constantly used in the best modern plays. 


The Continuity or Scenario 


119 


The Cut-back generally does one or more of the following three 
things: (1) Creates suspense, (2) covers a gap in action, or (3) elimi¬ 
nates the too frequent use of sub-titles. 

1. To Create Suspense .—This is the most common use of the Cut¬ 
back. Remember that thrilling picture wherein the heroine is 
abducted by the “villian?” He carries her to an old mill and places 
her, bound and gagged, on a run-way slowly conveying her to a grind¬ 
ing death between great, ponderous, crushing wheels. But the hero 
hears of her capture! He starts to the rescue—but has some distance 
to cover. Here the Cut-back begins to be useful. The main action 
of the play—the scene in the mill—is constantly interrupted to show 
the hero hot-footing it to the girl’s rescue—ever drawing nearer. The 
closer the girl draws to death in the grinding wheels, the closer her 
hero gets to the mill. And the action is constantly “cut-back.” This 
creates suspense. 

2. Covering a Gap in Action .—Suppose a murder is absolutely 
necessary to the telling of a story. The Board of Censorship will 
not pass a picture if the crime is actually depicted on the screen. The 
Cut-back saves the situation. The murder scene is shown until the 
assailant draws a gun, or knife; then the scene is interrupted and the 
action cut to another scene or character; then we quickly “cut-back” 
to the murder scene, which shows the victim dead and the murderer 
escaping or captured. There are many ways of covering a gap in 
action with the cut-back; the above is only one. 

3. Eliminating Sub-titles .—In the murder scene described above, 
the Cut-back not only made the picture satisfactory so far as the 
Censors were concerned, but also rendered it unnecessary to introduce 
a sub-title. Again, suppose you introduce a dinner on the screen. It 
would be monotonous and wasteful to show the entire meal. So you 
merely show the guests as they sit down to the table, then cut to 
another scene or set of scenes, then shortly return to the dinner, and 
we see the meal ended. Thus the use of a sub-title is eliminated. 


Chapter VIII 


THE PHOTOPLAY TITLE 

There has been a style in titles somewhat as in dress. At one time 
it was customary to use a certain fixed order of words. Later the 
fad was to use the character’s name as a title. Then titles of color 
were used. But all the while, little real attention was paid to the 
importance of the title. Most writers were content to affix to their 
manuscript a general expression vaguely related to the plot, and let it 
go at that. 

Of late, however, writers have begun to give the title its proper 
share of attention. They have come to realize that there are three 
important elements in successful photoplay writing; and, if a writer 
masters these, he is quite apt to be successful. The three elements 
in order of importance are: plot, synopsis and title. If you can evolve 
an original plot, comprehensively outline it in a well-written synopsis, 
and precede the whole with a satisfactory title, success is yours. As 
indicated above, plot is by far the most important element in photoplay 
writing. The ability to write a good synopsis is next in importance. 
The aptitude of selecting a good title is third. These three things are 
the successful triumvirate of photoplay writing. 

Why the Title is Important. 

There are two things which enable producers and exhibitors to 
advertise their photoplays successfully to the public. First, the “star” 
featured in the picture; and, second, the title of the play. 

As time goes on, the star becomes less important. People are be¬ 
ginning to awaken to a realizataion of the fact that a highly celebrated 
actor featured in a play does not necessarily mean an entertaining 
production. In a great many instances, film companies have gone to 
enormous expense to employ some grand opera star or stage favorite to 
appear in a picture, because of the advertising value of their names. 
Frequently, these plays have been utter failures. For example, Wil¬ 
liam Collier, a very funny and strikingly successful actor on the legiti¬ 
mate stage, was employed by Mack Sennett to appear in a few come¬ 
dies. Mr. Collier’s name had great advertising value; but, when his 
pictures were produced, they were generally said to be failures. Mr. 
Collier is funny of word and manner; therefore, he failed in the 
photoplay. DeWolf Hopper was featured at considerable expense 
in “Don Quixote.” Mr. Hopper is a very successful stage comedian. 
His picture “Don Quixote” was not highly satisfactory. His style of 
humor was not adapted to the photoplay. Mary Garden, a talented 
and successful grand opera star, was pronounced by most critics a 
failure in “Thais.” All this goes to demonstrate that, in the future, 
producers are likely to pay less attention to the star and more atten¬ 
tion to the play. The story itself will come into its own; therefore, 
the story’s title will be the main means of advertising the play and 
will assume more importance than it has to-day. Even at present the 


The Photoplay Title 


121 


title of a photoplay often has more “box-office” value—meaning it 
brings in more money to the exhibitor—than anything else. Knowing, 
then, that the title is of such tremendous importance, the new writer 
ought to know exactly what it should do. 

What the Title Should Do. 

The main purpose of the title is to advertise your play to the public. 
It may or it may not give a correct idea of what your play concerns. 
This is not absolutely necessary. But it must arrest the attention 
of the playgoer and make him want to see your photoplay. 

Before a title can appeal to the public, however, the play must be 
accepted for production by some film company. But, before your 
play can be accepted, it must appeal to some editor. It is essential, 
therefore, that the title attract the editor 

You may think the editorial appeal is of secondary importance—that 
the plot of your story is supreme. True, it is; but you may be sur¬ 
prised to know the great attraction there often is in a good title. In 
looking through manuscripts, the editor often becomes very interested 
in a manuscript, without knowing anything about the plot, simply 
because the title appeals to him. Even before he reads a word of your 
synopsis, he is interested in your work—he is deeply interested in it, 
because you have piqued his curiosity. Perhaps you appealed to his 
personal interest. Maybe your title created in his mind an image of 
many dollars to be made through successfully advertising your play. 
Perhaps he immediately sensed the drawing power of your title. 
But, no matter what interests him, it is a fact that he must be inter¬ 
ested, or should be; therefore, your first duty is to select a title that 
will appeal to the editor. 

Appealing to the public is a different matter. Guy De Maupas¬ 
sant aptly said: “The public is composed of numerous groups cry¬ 
ing out; console me, amuse me, satisfy me, touch me, make me dream, 
laugh, shudder, weep, think.” And your title should do at least one 
of these things. It is not possible, perhaps, to incorporate all of these 
elements in one title; but, in some way, you must select a group of 
words that will “get to” the man on the street, the average fellow, 
the type that is in the great majority. Do not make the mistake of 
trying to select a high-sounding or pretty title. If you do, it will go 
over the head of the average person—and the vast majority of play¬ 
goers are “average” people. 

If you will select a title that piques curiosity, you will find that 
your work will be given an instantaneous chance to prove itself worth 
while. If you stop to think, you know this is true. How often have 
you seen people stop in front of a motion picture theatre and look 
at the posters and pictures advertising the production inside? Some 
will see a title like, “The Wolves of Kultur,” and immediately turn 
away, saying, “I don’t want to see that. I’ve had enough of spies 
and plots and propaganda.” You yourself perhaps often have de¬ 
cided to go to a certain theatre, and, when you arrived outside and 
saw what was on the bill, turned away, unsatisfied, not interested, 
perhaps even repelled by the title of the play. I once heard a bright 
man say he didn’t care to go and see Griffith’s, “The Birth of a 
Nation,” because there was something about the title that somehow 


122 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


made him feel that the production itself was a long-drawn-out, dry, 
uninteresting affair, even though he had often heard it said that the 
play was well worth seeing. And it surely was! This is not a criti¬ 
cism of Mr. Griffith’s title, but merely an example to show how 
titles effect people. 

Compare the lack of interest in such titles as “The Village Con¬ 
vict,” a story by C. H. White, or “The Shot,” by Paushkin, with 
such suggestive and appealing titles as, “The Upper Berth,” by Craw¬ 
ford, or the “Riders of the Purple Sage,” a Fox production, or “Hearts 
of the World,” by Mr. Griffith. The last three titles are not 
quoted as perfect examples, but merely as being far more interesting 
to the average person than most of those we see. Knowing what 
the title should do, we ought to find out just what constitutes a good 
title. 

What Constitutes A Perfect Title. 

A perfect title should be: apt, or appropriate; specific; interesting, 
or attractive; short; new; literary; sonorous; suggestive. Often it 
is not possible to incorporate all of these qualities in one title, but you 
should if you can. 

An apt, appropriate, or fitting title is one applying particularly 
to your manuscript. In many cases, the fitting title will not suggest 
itself until your story is written. Examples of fitting titles are: 
“Many Waters,” by Margaret Deland, and “The Window that 
Monsieur Forgot,” by Mary Imlay Taylor. 

In your zeal to select a fitting title, do not overlook the fact that • 
it must also be interesting and attractive. It is not necessary to say 
more here about making titles attractive. This has been covered 
under the section dealing with appeal to the editor. 

Many beginners, however, fail to make their titles specific. The 
new writer (not to mention the experienced writer who ought to 
know better) is apt to handicap his work with such general titles 
as, “Two Friends,” by Kipling; or “A Love Story,” by Webster. 
Avoid this. Narrow your title down to some specific phase of your 
plot. If possible, make it a title applying only to your particular 
manuscript, as O’Brien did when he thought of “The Diamond 
Lens.” 

Try to make your title from three to five words in length. It is 
apt to be clumsy and awkward if it is longer. Do not, however, go 
to the extreme and make your title so short that it is vague and 
meaningless. Edward Belamy did this when he named one of his 
productions “Lost.” 

By a new title is meant one that is fresh and unhackneyed. The 
commonplace title often spoils a play. Who would want to see a 
play with a title like, “All’s Well That Ends Well,” when just 
around the corner they were exhibiting a play with such a fresh title 
as, “Roselnary For Remembrance.” 

It k not absolutely essential that the photoplaywright select a lit¬ 
erary title—one the words of which bring out shades of beauty 
and meaning and are arranged in exact rhetorical order. I say it 
is not essential, because the average playgoer might not be any more 
impressed with a rhetorical title than with any other; in fact, a large 


The Photoplay Title 


123 


proportion of the people who view photoplays might be more im¬ 
pressed with an illiterate -title. However, if it is possible for you to 
choose between two titles, one lacking in literary qualities and the 
other possessing them, by all means choose the latter. There are two 
titles often given as examples of literary quality and the opposite; 
“A Purple Rhododendron,” by John Fox, Jr., is literary. “A Ride 
With a Mad Horse in a Freight Car,” by W. H. H. Murray, is quite 
the opposite. 

A sonorous title sounds well; its words and syllables follow each 
other in a smooth, pleasant, attractive manner. Compare the euphon¬ 
ious qualities of “Ligeia,” by Poe, with “The Betrothal of Elypholate 
Yingst,” by Helen Martin, or “The Glenmutchkin Railway,” by 
Aytoun. In making your title smooth and pleasant in sound, do 
not go to the extreme and weaken it so that it fails to draw attention 
to your work. 

A suggestive title brings up pictures in the reader’s mind. For 
instance, “The Upper Berth” starts the mind thinking of certain 
interesting possibilities—is suggestive—and makes you want to read 
the story. “The Severed Hand” is suggestive of mystery; therefore, 
it is interesting. “Marjorie Daw” suggests the character story; 
“The Deserted House” suggests the story of setting. “The Canni¬ 
bals and Mr. Buffum” suggests humor, while “The Courting of 
Dinah Shadd” suggests love, humor, and, perhaps, character. It will 
be well to call the beginner’s attention to the fact that it is important, 
if practicable, .hgyjgu. suggest lavs, for love appeals to nearly 
everyone. 

Of course, it is a difficult matter to say exactly why a title pleases 
or displeases, why it interests or fails to interest, because different 
people have different tastes; but it is quite likely that the effectiveness 
of a title depends in a great measure on this quality of suggestion. It 
is not even an exaggeration to say that many titles are poor because 
they lack suggestive qualities. Consequently, it should be the photo¬ 
playwright’s constant aim to select a title that will “make pictures 
in the other fellow’s mind.” 

To sum up, a good title should be apt, specific, attractive, new, 
literary, sonorous and suggestive. 

How And When To Choose A Title. 

There is a simple, easy way to select a title for your manuscript. 
First, analyze your plot; find out what phase of your plot distinguishes 
your play from other photoplays written around the same, or similar, 
basic idea. The average play is built up of common incidents which 
have been used again and again by other writers. But, in an original 
manuscript, these incidents are carefully arranged and put together 
in such a manner that, somewhere in the script, probably near the cli¬ 
max, the play takes a turn, or twist, which makes the work different 
from other plays made up of the same elements. Right here is where 
you should select the title. Make it tell something about that special 
phase of your plot , that new “twist” you put in your work, and you 
will find that, in most cases, it will be apt and specific. If your plot 
is interesting, your title will be attractive. Then it is up to you to 
refine it in such a manner that it will be sonorous, suggestive and 


124 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


literary. But, above all, make your title first interesting, next sug¬ 
gestive, then new, appropriate and sonorous, and, finally, literary. 

The title is first in position on any manuscript. This does not 
mean, however, that you must have a title before you write a play. 
The fact of the matter is, ’tis wise, and often necessary, as previously 
indicated, to select the title last. This is due to the fact that a writer 
may understand his theme and know what his characters are going 
to do, even have his script worked out in his own mind to the minutest 
detail before he begins to write, yet he may not have the faintest idea 
what the title is going to be. So that, in most cases, it is necessary to 
wait and select the title after the play is finished. 

Titles selected before the script is written are generally vague and 
uninteresting. If selected last, they are more apt to be specific and 
appropriate. 

Taking A Clever Title And Building A Play Around It. 

In some cases, however, a title first suggests itself, then, in turn, 
suggests a story to be built around the title. That is, having thought 
of a good expression for a title, a certain train of thought is started in 
an author’s mind. Thus he is able to construct a play round the 
title. 

D. W. Griffith’s famous play “Intolerance” is a good example. 
Mr. Griffith undoubtedly had the title of this play in his mind before 
the script was constructed. He had been turning over in his mind 
for a long time the fact that an intolerant condition of mind, or action, 
on the part of any individual, or society of individuals, is harmful 
to the general well-being of society. He knew that intolerance had 
been in many instances the curse of a nation. Acting on this knowl¬ 
edge, he constructed a master play around the title; a play dealing with 
four distinct epochs of history, each epoch closely related in motive 
to the other, and the whole cleverly portraying the evil influence of 
intolerance. 

Again, consider Herbert Brenon’s “War Brides,” featuring the 
incomparable Nazimova. Here is a fine example of taking a title 
and building a play around it. 

Remember Charlie Chaplin in “A Dog’s Life”? This was an¬ 
other case of taking a title and building a play around it. According 
to the story, this is how it happened. 

Harry Lauder paid all-the-world’s Charlie a friendly visit. After 
Chaplin had showed the Scot the elaborate fixtures in his place, he 
inquired: “Well, what do you thing of it?” Lauder jokingly made 
this ironical reply: “It’s a dog’s life you are leading, Chaplin, a dog’s 
life.” Presto! Chaplin had an idea. He took the expression “a 
dog’s life,” and built a play around it. 

The titles of plays constructed in this manner usually are too vague 
and unspecific. As a rule, they sum up the play’s theme in a few 
words. So far as the title is concerned, therefore, this is not the best 
way to work. The new writer perhaps will write better plays and 
think of better titles if he writes his plays first and selects his titles 
last. 


The Photoplay Title 


125 


What Titles To Avoid. 

Do not handicap your manuscript with a hackneyed, commonplace 
title like, “A Little Child Shall Lead Them.” No one would want 
to see a play with such a title if he could see “Cupid a la Carte.” 

Don’t choose a general title like, “A Love Story,” when there are 
plenty you can find that will apply particularly to the manuscript, as 
does “A Passion in the Desert.” 

Don’t condemn your play to defeat by labeling it with an unin¬ 
teresting title, such as “The Village Convict,” when there are so 
many that will make a person deeply anxious to see your play. Con¬ 
sider “Heart of Darkness,” by Joseph Conrad. 

Don’t make your play objectionable by using a sensational title 
like, “In Love with the Czarina,” when there are many temperate 
phrases to serve your purpose. 

Don’t reveal your plot in your title, as Poe did in “The Premature 
Burial,” unless you intentionally do so as he did. In this case, he 
wanted his readers, even before they read his story, to know that 
there would be a premature burial. He intended to arouse their 
interest in this manner and surprise them at the end. To do this is 
such an unusual procedure, however, and requires such delicate treat¬ 
ment, that the beginner had better avoid it. 

Don’t handicap your manuscript with a depressing, sorrowful, 
gloomy title, such as “The Convict’s Return.” There are so many 
pleasant things to advertise to the public. 

Shun the or and and style of title used in dime novels, “The Test, 
or Doing His Bit.” 

Avoid alliterative titles, such as “The Pit and the Pendulum.” 
Many critics consider this title good; others think it is not. At any 
rate, Poe was treading on dangerous ground when he selected it. 

Avoid the newspaper title, “Saved by a Bootblack”; or extremely 
fantastical titles like, “A Day on Mars”; or anecdotal, “A Trip to 
New York;” or extremely sensational, “When Love Came;” or 
repulsive, as, “A Murder in the Rue Morgue.” 


Chapter IX. 


THE PHOTOPLAY STAGE. 

Its Scope. 

The scope, or view, encompassed by a photoplay camera is com¬ 
monly called the “photoplay stage,” no matter whether in a studio 
or out-of-doors. The photoplay stage, then, may seem to the begin¬ 
ner to be quite a large area; but, in reality, it is not so large as it at 
first seems. 

The fact of the matter is, when an actor is standing within fifteen 
or twenty feet of the camera, he must be cautious in his movements 
or he will get out of the picture; that is, he will step outside the range 
of the camera, and will not appear on the screen. In writing your 
synopsis, therefore, you must not try to make any of the action envelop 
a great area. If an interior, it is impossible to show all of a room. 
Only part of it, perhaps half, can be used. 

Lighting in the Studio. 

An up-to-date studio is thoroughly equipped with high-powered 
Cooper-Hewitts, which make it possible to take a picture at any time 
of the day or night, without respect to the sun. These lights throw 
a peculiar blue-green color over everybody, but make the taking of 
a picture at any time a simple matter. 

But, in developing a plot, the beginner must be careful how he 
introduces candles, lanterns, lamps, and the like, into his manuscript. 
Do not try to use scenes that depend for their success upon difficult 
lighting effects, unless you thoroughly understand studio lighting. 
If you do, the probabilities are that you will work out something 
impossible to produce and thereby handicap the sale of your manu¬ 
script. Try to avoid as much as possible the use of night scenes. 
The only scene of this type easy to produce is one in which a character 
enters the room with a dark dantern, and flashes it around on the 
walls. This is easily pictured because the acter carries an unlighted 
lantern and the circle of light thrown on the wall, supposed to be from 
his lantern, is really a spot light operated by a second party. The 
best way to be sure not to attempt impossible lighting effects is to 
carefully study the different photoplays you see on the screen and 
notice the diverse styles of lighting. Follow other writers’ methods. 
And be reasonable. 

Limitations and Restrictions of the Photoplay. 

Do not attempt the impracticable in your photoplay. Nearly every¬ 
thing is possible in photoplay producing, but many things are imprac¬ 
ticable. For example, let us suppose a number of horsemen dash 
into your picture. The hero is wounded; falls to the ground. His 
pursuers dash past. The heroine rides to the rescue. All this is 
possible but impractical, for the reason that the dust will create a haze 
to dim the picture. Of course, the scene can be made by holding up 
the action—the camera being stopped—while the dust settles. But 


The Photoplay Stage 


127 


unless your script is unusually good, it will be rejected in favor of one 
requiring less trouble to produce. 

Do not make it necessary for any of the actors in your drama, 
or any of the studio people, to risk their lives in order to produce 
your work. Of course, many “risky” scenes have been, and always 
will be, photographed; but, if this is to be done, the writer had better 
leave it to the producer himself, and not try to write it into his own 
manuscript of his own initiative. If the editor finds your work 
justifies such a risk, he will see that it is taken. 

Also avoid writing about action requiring extraordinary climatic 
effects and unusual out-of-door settings. Don’t insist that the sun 
shine in a certain scene, or that it rain in another, or that there be a 
snowstorm in a third. Leave all this to the producer. Only write 
plays dealing with special settings of this character when you actually 
know that a certain company is in the market for them. 

Remember, too, that the photoplay camera is very heavy and must 
be set upon an extremely strong tripod. Therefore, it is not easy 
for the cameraman to climb around in trees and get in the uncom¬ 
fortable positions a tourist does with a kodak. Of course, such things 
are done, but generally of the director’s own free will. It is better 
for the beginner not to write about strange and difficult action and 
settings, leaving this work to more experienced writers. 

When writing your play, constantly aim to spare the producer all 
unnecessary expense. If, however, your play really deserves a big 
scene, introduce it, but be impartial in your judgment, and don’t let 
the fact that the script is yours carry you away, while you write 
action in such impossible places that your work is doomed to failure. 


Chapter X. 


WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT. 

The Human Element. 

The human element—heart interest and human interest—sells 
more manuscripts than anything else. No matter how cleverly 
written your work is, how carefully constructed your plot, how grip¬ 
ping the events in your play, it will fail if it lacks heart interest or 
human interest. You must capture the interest and sympathy of your 
audience. This is the stuff that sells manuscripts. Make the public 
admire your hero and heroine. Make them dislike your “villain.” 
Move them to laughter, tears, even hatred. Make them think. To 
do this you must give them human nature. 

The quickest way to reach a person’s mind is through his heart. 
Love generally goes to the heart; therefore, nearly every successful 
photoplay contains heart interest or a touch of love interest. Heart 
interest, of course, is not love interest. Heart interest may exist 
without love interest, but love interest cannot exist without heart 
interest. Your work will be cold, barren, lifeless if it does not con¬ 
tain heart interest in some form. And it is only in remote cases that 
a photoplay meets with any great success if it does not contain a love 
story. While, on the other hand, some of the greatest successes of 
all time have been written around love. Most people are subject to 
love at one time or another. Consequently, a love story appeals to the 
majority. No matter how young or old your audience is, they 
like to see love portrayed. The youthful gaze at it in anticipation; 
the aged, in fond remembrance. And remember that the average per¬ 
son, when witnessing your play, unconsciously thinks he is actually 
living the incidents presented on the screen. The fifteen-year-old 
girl, the middle-aged matron, the sweet-faced grandmother, all 
imagine, for the moment, that they are the object of the manly hero’s 
ardent love. This is why the photoplay is so popular. It lifts 
people out of the commonplace things of life and puts them on a 
higher level where they long to be. A love story will elevate them 
in this manner quicker than any other type of manuscript. 

Henry Christine Warnack has so cleverly written on this subject 
this his words are here quoted in full: 

“Why is it, since everybody is trying to write motion picture plays 
that the studios all over the country cry out that they are starving for 
stories ? 

“Mostly, the answer is that our stories are not human. They 
are things we think up. They are mechanically clever. They have 
plot and action, but they are not human. They have artifice, but they 
are also artificial. They have none of that spontaneity of the thing 
that springs from the heart. They are not written with a glow and 
they bring no new joy to the beholder when once they have been 
filmed. They have none of that stuff that makes the bud and bloom 



What to Write About 


129 


of springtime. They amuse the mind, but the laughter they provoke 
is not from the heart, and they have no tears. 

‘‘Speaking of the human note in stories, at least two of David Wark 
Griffith’s recent great successes have been based on the simplest of 
stories wherein he has the leading characters merely a girl and a boy. 
He gives them no other name than these, nor has he need of other 
names. Life holds nothing more wonderful than a girl and a boy 
and the love between them that springs like a pure flower from holy 
ground. Two shall look and tremble; afterwards, nations follow. 

“We have been striving too much for effects and have not thought 
enough about naturalness. We have been fascinated by the magic of 
the camera and have let fine mechanics put the text out of mind. 
We can have only one item, and that is life. 

“One thing we dare not forget; it is that the world is starving for 
love. Any story that has not love for its cornerstone is short of 
the greatness belonging to drama. All other passions have their 
place in the wonderful fabric of life, but love excels them all. 

“To-day the good story must also have purpose and it must have 
light. Love is the degree of understanding. Sacrifice has such a 
wide appeal because it manifests the unselfishness of a great love and 
becomes its understudy. Nobility is never blind. 

“Generally speaking, I should say that the safest rule for story 
building is to choose a theme and a set of circumstances that contain 
and express deep feeling in a way that will arouse the feelings of an 
audience. Let a story be flawless in all other respects, yet if it can¬ 
not make the people feel frequently, I maintain that it is not a suc¬ 
cess. I place the quality to arouse the feelings of the public as of first 
value in any story, and the more natural and unstrained the effort 
in this line appears to be, the surer will be the effect.” 

The Popular Appeal. 

The great majority of the people who go to see photoplays are 
of the middle class. Better pictures are constantly being made— 
pictures that will appeal to the more educated—but the average 
motion picture theatre would have to close its doors if it did not 
exhibit stories that reach the heart of the average individual. The 
photoplay is a cheap amusement; that is why it is so well patronized. 
The average working man can take his entire family to see a photo¬ 
play for no more than it would cost him to buy one cheap seat at a 
theatrical performance. Hence, the great need of pleasing the ordi¬ 
nary individual. 

For a good example of appeal to the masses, refer to scene fourteen 
of “The Countess Charming.” Here Vandergrift, the “heavy type 
of financier,” is made to say of the Red Cross, “It exasperates me— 
this everlasting soliciting, begging—grafting! They get no money 
of mine!” Julian is quick to rebuke him with, “I resent such a 
sneer, sir, at great-hearted workers for a wonderful cause.” And 
later, “Some day, Mr. Vandergrift, the government will largely 
confiscate such swollen fortunes as yours and apply them to real 
human needs. I hope to God it may- be soon!” This goes to the 
heart of the audience. They admire Julian; they dislike Vander¬ 
grift—just as the author wants them to. 


130 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


In your haste to please the majority, do not overlook the minority. 
Simply remember that anyone enjoys best the thing he understands 
most. Therefore, while all cannot understand some things, the aver¬ 
age playgoer is not necessarily unintelligent. The production and 
success of such plays as “Les Miserables,” featuring William Farnum, 
proves that the average American enjoys high-class plays j but the 
probabilities are that he enjoys more those plots dealing with every¬ 
day American events, such as, “Say, Young Fellow,” with Douglas 
Fairbanks, or “De Luxe Annie,” featuring Norma Talmadge. 

Do not attempt to write any particular class of photoplays. Of 
course, writers often find it easier to construct certain types of plays ; 
but you will do well to strive constantly for versatility. Do not 
content yourself with limited writing. Do not, for example, write 
only Western dramas. Most companies do not produce them. Try 
also to write society stories, war plays, and so on. Try to make your 
work appeal to different classes of people. Aim to write for all 
classes. 

In this connection it will be well to note what Ludovic Halevy, 
the French novelist, has to say: “We must not write simply for the 
refined, the blase, and the squeamish. We must write for that man 
who goes there on the street with his nose in his newspaper and his 
umbrella under his arm. We must write for that fat, breathless 
woman whom I see from my window, as she painfully climbs into the 
Odeon omnibus. We must write, consequently, for the bourgeois, 
if it were only to refine them, to make them less bourgeois. And if 
I dared, I should say that we must write even for fools.” 

What a worldly-wise man was Halevy! 

Choose a Familiar Subject . 

In casting about for suitable subjects for your plays, do not make 
the mistake of attempting to build a play around some theme with 
which you are not familiar. If you have always lived in a small 
town, do not attempt to write plays of city life. You may be able 
to do it and do it well; but the safer procedure is to choose a subject 
from your own surroundings. There always will be a demand for 
stories with rural settings, so there really is no good reason why you 
should turn to the White Lights for material. There are just as 
many plots in your life, even if you live in the country, as there are 
in the lives of city folks. Perhaps more. Of course, it is much easier 
to imagine you see more romance in the other fellow’s existence! 
This is probably due to the fact that most people think that their life 
is more humdrum and less romantic than the lives of all other people. 
But you should not be led astray by such thoughts. Apply your 
imagination to the events constantly happening all around you—even 
in your own life—and you will find no difficulty in choosing a subject 
with which you are perfectly familiar. 

You probably will not, however, be able to find material in your 
own life, and the lives of your friends, which can be used exactly 
in the form in which you find it. You will have to take out certain 
elements and insert others. Actual life rarely makes suitable photo¬ 
play material exactly as it transpires. Here, again, you must use 
your imagination. 


What to Write About 


131 


There is no reason why a person living in the country should not 
write of the city; but, since there is plenty of material in every life, 
why try to write business plays, or society dramas, or war plays, if you 
have spent most of your days in an entirely different atmosphere? 
Why risk failure through ignorance of your subject? In order to be 
salable, a manuscript must be sincere. Before you can write sin¬ 
cerely, you must have an intimate knowledge of your subject. This 
is the best reason in the world why you should confine your early 
efforts to the writing of those things with which you are well 
acquainted. 

On the other hand, if you live in the city, do not attempt stories 
with a rural flavor. The city furnishes enough elements without 
your having to resort to outside influence. Take New York’s East 
Side for example, or Wall Street, or the gay life of Broadway. There 
is so much material for the city writer that he never should be obliged 
to look outside for suitable themes. 

Writing in The Moving Picture World, E. W. Sargent gives 
some excellent advice on this subject. He says: 

“If you live in the country, try to put the country on paper. If 
you are a dweller in the cities, seek the streets and city life for in¬ 
spiration. An editor from the West commented the other day on 
the splendid field lying fallow in New York’s East Side, and yet it 
is seldom that a story of the East Side is written that ‘gets over,’ not 
because there are no photoplaywrights on the East Side, but because 
they are all busy writing society plays and stories of business life, 
passing unheeded the wonderful pathos of the section of the town in 
which they live. With half the imagination they use in mapping out 
a story of high society, they could weave about the life they see the 
tender veil of poetry and make the sordid almost sacred with tenderness 
of touch. In the same way, the girl who lives uptown wants to 
write about settlement workers and Salvation Army lassies, and the 
absence of convincing color sends the story back.” 

By advising the writer to treat only of those subjects with which 
he is familiar it is not meant that he must write only of those things 
coming within the range of his personal experience. Marion Craw¬ 
ford and George Eliot wrote of experiences never felt and places 
never seen. They had great imaginations. Furthermore, they knew 
the art of building a story around what might be aptly termed “second 
hand knowledge.” That is, if they couldn’t get material by personal 
experience, they got it from friends, or acquaintances, or books, or 
periodicals; but, no matter how they got it, they got it just the same, 
and they got it correctly. Therefore, their work was sincere. 

You can do the same. If, after you have succeeded in selling your 
stories dealing with subjects well-known to you, you decide to write 
about foreign themes, first read extensively on the subject. Find out 
the truth about the thing you want to write. Look it up in books; 
go to the library if you have one in your city; read what books are in 
your family and those you can borrow from your friends. No matter 
how you get your information, be sure you do get it; and be sure that 
you get it true to life. Then it will be reasonably safe for you to 
attempt the theme in mind. 


132 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


There is this element of uncertainty, however. You may know 
thoroughly the conditions and circumstances about what you intend 
to write; but the fact that they are not your own experiences may make 
it rather difficult for you to correctly interpret the different characters’ 
reactions to certain circumstances. It is a difficult matter to say just 
what a person will do under certain conditions, and, unless you have 
“gone through” it yourself, you may not be able to tell it sincerely. 

Jules Verne wrote of conditions and things never seen. He wasn’t 
an extensive traveler, yet to read some of his books you might be 
inclined to think he had traveled all over the world. He thoroughly 
and convincingly wrote his book, “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under 
the Sea,” yet we all know he was never that far down. In fact, he 
had but very litle personal knowledge of the sea. He also wrote, 
“A Tour of the World in Eighty Days,” but he never toured the 
world in that time. The secret of his success was great imagination 
and extensive reading. 

But, where Jules Verne succeeded, it is safe to say that most be¬ 
ginners would fail. Therefore, it is better for them not make the 
attempt. Until your name and work become familiar to a number 
of editors, you should confine your efforts to writing about your own 
experiences; that is, about themes with which you are familiar. 

Should you attempt to write on a historical subject, or something 
foreign to your own experience, be sure that, before you begin to write, 
you have a thorough knowledge of your subject. Do not endow his¬ 
torical characters with characteristics they never possessed. The 
moving picture, among other things, is highly educational. There¬ 
fore, producers must be very careful in producing historical subjects, 
or any other subject for that matter. Everything must be strictly 
accurate. All this means that, if you attempt unfamiliar subjects, 
you will have to spend a great deal of time in a reference room. 
You will be obliged to read a great many books before you can even 
begin your script. 

Write of People and Places That Interest You. 

It is important that you write on subjects interesting to yourself, 
or with which you are in sympathy. A writer cannot interest an 
audience in his work unless he himself is interested in it. If you are 
going to arouse any passion in your spectators, if you are going to 
make them feel anger, hatred, contempt, you yourself must first 
feel it. 

Suppose stories of poverty and tenement life are popular. Deter¬ 
mined to deal with a popular subject, you decide to write a play of 
tenement life. Perhaps you have some knowledge of the subject, but 
are not particularly interested in it because it does not appeal to you. 
In fact, all the environment of the tenement district may be some¬ 
what repulsive to your tastes. Still you are anxious to sell your 
work, so attempt the subject. You spend a lot of time on your play. 
Discouraging as it may seem, the chances are the script will never sell, 
for it will not be possible for you to inject the necessary punch into 
the subject, not being deeply interested in tenement life. A similar 
script written by one who had done tenement work of his own free 


V 


What to Write About 133 

will would readily find a sale, all other things being equal, while yours 
would be rejected. 

Choose Unusual Subjects. 

It is also virtually important that, in choosing a subject, you select 
something out of the ordinary. Try to avoid the commonplace themes 
which have been worked to death by the average writer. Of, if you 
must treat of a subject rather ordinary, try to write about it in an 
unusual manner. 

Do not, however, be grotesque in your attempt to be unusual. In 
your effort to be out of the ordinary, do not be impractical or impos¬ 
sible. With the possible and practicable always in view, make a tre¬ 
mendous effort to get out of the rut, to traverse untrodden fields, 
No matter where you live, or in what circumstances you are, there 
are everywhere about you plenty of subjects which easily could be 
worked into very unusual productions. 

Don’t hesitate to write about the unusual for fear that it will be 
difficult to find an editor to produce your work. Editors are con¬ 
stantly on the lookout for things out of the ordinary; and, if you 
can produce an unusual photoplay, still true to life and practicable, 
you will have no difficulty whatever in selling. The chances are ten 
to one that it will bring you much more than a commonplace pro¬ 
duction. 

Write Only Plays of Action. 

Many subjects are not suitable for photoplays because they lack 
action; that is, in order to do justice to their theme, dialogue and 
description are essential. Before you attempt to write on any sub¬ 
ject, find out if you can do it justice in the photoplay. Ask yourself 
if description and dialogue are necessary to bring out the plot in a 
satisfactory manner. If either are needed, drop the theme like you 
would a hot coal. For the great need in photoplays is action, and 
the value of the few words of explanation thrown on the screen must 
not be over-estimated. 

For this reason, it is poor policy for the beginner to attempt 
detective stories. The usual detective story depends, in a large 
measure, on dialogue and explanation by the author. The writer 
spends a great deal of his time talking about the detective hero’s 
method of deduction. Very rarely real action occurs. Furthermore, 
in most detective stories, the knot is usually tied before the story 
begins. This is difficult to portray in the photoplay unless a long 
explanation is made at the opening. Such openings are not wanted. 
This does not mean, however, that it is impossible to write detective 
plays successfully. It has been done; it is being done. Take, for 
example, the picturization of the magazine story, “The Gray Ghost.” 
While this was not generally conceded to be a photoplay of excep¬ 
tionally high quality, nevertheless, it was dramatized in a satisfactory 
manner, and strongly appealed to certain classes of playgoers. 

Most detective stories treat of murders and certain criminal prac¬ 
tices. But the writer cannot depict murder on the screen, or any¬ 
thing criminal, without getting in trouble with the censors, unless he 
is skillful. For this reason, the detective story is objectionable. 

If, however, you are able to write detective stories in a plausible 


134 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


manner, by all means do write them; for, though the art is difficult, 
it is by no means impossible. You will find it an easy matter to sell a 
good detective story for a very substantial sum. 

Select Characters That Create Sympathy. 

We have seen that plot is a struggle, a never-ending conflict. 
Before there can be struggle, however, there must be antagonism. 
Each play must therefore exhibit a protagonist and an antagonist. 
To oppose the good in your play, there must be evil. But, in writing 
of the evil characters, you must be exceedingly careful not to let them 
perform actions which might gain sympathy for them. In other 
words, the people who witness your play must be constantly in sym¬ 
pathy with your hero and not with his opponent. Be careful to 
create very little, if any, pity for the evil-doer. Unless you are cau¬ 
tious in this respect, the audience will be dissatisfied when things go 
against the “villain.” 

In order to make your play a success, your characters must arouse 
the sympathy of the audience. Therefore, in writing a play in which 
the hero commits a wrong, it becomes vitally necessary for you to 
show that there was a powerful motive for his act—that it could not 
be avoided—if you expect the audience to be in sympathy with him, 
though not necessarily approving his act. 

On the other hand, when a crime is committed by an antagonistic 
character, you must be careful to prove that he was not morally 
justified in committing the crime. You must do this in order that 
the audience will not pity him. The evil deeds of the dark forces 
in your play should not be morally justifiable, however; but they 
must be actuated by a fully sufficient motive. 

The Happy Ending. 

There are three things without which any life is sadly incomplete: 
“Faith, hope and love.” It has been said that the greatest of these is 
love. However that may be, it is certainly true that the average 
person’s life is made up, in no small degree, of hope. Much of life 
is built upon hope. Hope often makes life endurable—the hope that 
things will adjust themselves eventually, or be better to-morrow, and 
that everything will come out all right in the end. The average in¬ 
dividual takes up his burden each day with the expectation that, by so 
doing, he will eventually reach a brighter goal. In fact, most every¬ 
one is constantly centering their mind on the hope element. 

It is the most natural thing in the world, then, that people should 
look for hope in photoplays. While your characters are undergoing 
a severe trial, the audience is constantly hoping that their misfortunes 
are only temporary, and that, in the end, better condiions will prevail. 
For this reason, the tragic ending has steadily declined in popularity. 
We have reached the point where it is almost impossible to sell a 
manuscript unless it has a happy ending. 

This does not mean that there must not be an element of tragedy in 
your plot. There is no reason why misfortune should not be allowed 
to overtake some of your characters; this may be desirable, even 
necessary. But before your play ends, the majority of your characters 
should find happiness, peace and love. Before the final scene of your 


What to Write About 


135 


play vanishes from the screen, the lives of your main characters should 
be filled with hope and happiness—if this be realistically possible. 

Do not understand by this that, in the last scene of your play, the 
hero and heroine must fondly embrace, or hurriedly marry, or go 
through any of the “stock room” endings tacked on most photoplays. 
It is possible, and altogether desirable, to end your script in a different 
way. But no matter just how it ends, no matter whether the girl 
actually marries the boy or not, the last scenes should at least suggest 
peace and happiness, in order that the audience will leave the theatre 
feeling that the future is hopeful. 

The vital need of the happy ending becomes readily apparent when 
you recall that most people, in watching a photoplay, unconsciously 
live the events themselves. If they see an interesting play, during 
which much misfortune befalls the main characters, but happiness 
comes at last, they are satisfied. But if misfortune all through the 
play is capped with a tragic ending, the audience is apt to take it all 
to heart, and leave the theatre in an unhappy frame of mind. This is 
not desirable for reasons too obvious to explain. 

The Picturesque Element . 

Every photoplay should contain the picturesque element. Some 
themes, otherwise good in themselves, necessitate homely treatment; 
perhaps the background is lacking in beauty. But, even in such ex¬ 
treme cases, it is necessary to add picturesque elements to the plot, 
not only to make the play more pleasant to the eye, but also by way 
of contrast. 

Background and setting are not of primary importance, but they 
are important nevertheless. You will find that often one of the most 
vital elements of attraction in your work will be the setting in which 
your plot develops. The background in a photoplay is much the same 
to the photoplay as the setting is to a short story. Therefore, it is 
highly desirable for the photoplaywright to read what has been said 
in Part One of this book under “Setting.” 

Satisfying Market Demands. 

When writing your plays, keep one eye on your script and the 
other on the photoplay market. There are certain types of plays which 
editors do not want, and other types which they are mighty anxious to 
get. It goes without saying that you want to write the latter; there¬ 
fore, before you begin to write any particular type, find out if it is in 
demand. 

In this connection, remember that certain classes of plays are 
“hatched up” in the studio—written by staff writers. If one of the 
studio writers learns that certain peculiar types of plays are wanted by 
his company* he is, of course, wise to write them. But there are enough 
exceedingly popular subjects everywhere to supply you with so much 
material that you will not have to resort to writing about subjects the 
demand for which is limited. 


Chapter XI 


THINGS YOU SHOULD NOT WRITE ABOUT 

The preceding chapter has indicated the importance of knowing 
what to write about. It is also vital for the beginner to know what 
he should not write about, for there are many subjects which, in 
themselves, make the sale of a photoplay practically impossible. 

Impossible , Impracticable and too Expensive Subjects. 

The beginner often writes about a subject that is impossible or 
impracticable to produce. He does this because his knowledge of 
photoplay requirements is often limited; or he outdoes himself in an 
attempt to produce something extraordinary; or, having seen so many 
impracticable pictures on the screen, he is led to believe that the aver¬ 
age motion picture company is anxious to produce the spectacular. 

As to what is possible in the way of stage equipment to carry out a 
plot, the writer must be guided by his own judgment. There is no 
rule except common sense. Producers can provide almost anything, 
such as, automobile, mansions, and so forth; but they can’t easily 
wreck passenger trains and destroy battleships. 

Always remember that each scene must be posed before the camera. 
All settings must be built by stage hands. Therefore, army battles, 
shipwrecks, train wrecks, and the like, are not only impracticable, 
but highly expensive. If you let your characters indulge in these 
gentle pastimes, your chances of making sales are few. 

“Big scenes” are not only expensive and impracticable; they often 
are not worth the trouble. People care less and less about the spec¬ 
tacular. There is far more effect, power and artistry in a simple scene, 
well-planned, skillfully directed, ably acted. Very often scenes costing 
only a few dollars will reach the heart of an audience when the more 
spectacular fails. 

The author has seen hundreds of otherwise good manuscripts re¬ 
turned with the simple remark, “Too expensive to produce.” Try, 
therefore, to be economical. But do not imagine that producers are 
penurious. They are quite the contrary, yet the photoplaywright 
should not make it obligatory for them to spend any great amount of 
money. Let them decide whether they will or not. If they think your 
work warrants an expensive scene, they will provide it; but you should 
not handicap the sale of your manuscript by insisting on the scene 
yourself. 

Leave out of your plot all action requiring unusual scenic effects 
or elaborate stage settings. Of course, a powerful theme should be 
well-handled with respect to setting; but it is best to treat of your 
theme in a general way regarding the exact location, and leave the 
entire matter in the hands of the producer. If the action of your plot 
takes you to an unusual place, the filming of which will cost consider¬ 
able, ask yourself if the same action could not be well worked out in a 
less expensive location. You might think a great number of people 


Things You Should Not Write About 


137 


are required to produce a certain scene. No doubt it would be very 
effective to have your hero quarrel with the heroine in some elaborate 
scene, a ballroom for example. But this would require a great num¬ 
ber of “extras,” when the same scene would be just as effective, even 
more effective because of centralization of interest, if it occurred in a 
quiet room of the girl’s home. 

Children and Animals in Pictures. 

A great many photoplays have been produced in which a trick 
animal has been featured. Mack Sennett has often used in his come¬ 
dies a very intelligent dog. Horses with special training have also 
been utilized. These pictures are generally so appealing that many 
beginners immediately decide they must write one. Here they make 
a big mistake, for the average company is not equipped with trained 
animals and are, therefore, unable to produce such manuscripts. 

If, however, you have an excellent plot absolutely requiring the 
use of some sort of trained animals, the best thing for you to do is to 
take the matter up with some company before you attempt to write 
the script. Do not waste time on the play unless you first find out 
that there is a possibility of selling it. 

For the same reason, you should not attempt to write photoplays 
requiring the use of children; that is, children skilled in dramatic art. 
Fox has produced some excellent plays in which the Lee kiddies were 
featured. They made a decided hit. But it is not advisable for the 
new writer to attempt this type of production unless he previously 
makes arrangements with some company to consider his work. In 
writing your first plays, you will do well to confine yourself to subjects 
that can be produced in most any studio. This will greatly increase 
your chance of success. 

Costume Plays. 

The first thing some beginners want to write are plays requiring 
the use of elaborate costumes of romantic days gone by. Such pro¬ 
ductions are called “costume plays.” A great many of them have been 
produced, and always will be produced; but, as a rule, they are 
written in the studio by staff writers, or are written by free-lance 
writers at the request of some particular producer. You can readily 
see, therefore, what small chance a beginner would have of selling a 
costume play. There is scarcely one chance in a hundred that he 
would find a producer who was ready and willing to go to the tre¬ 
mendous expense of producing his script. 

It is just as easy, in fact much easier, to write plays of the present 
day, in which characters appear in their regular clothes. To write 
such manuscripts requires no research work, while to write costume 
plays you must diligently study the customs and costumes of the 
period you wish to portray. 

All About the Censors. 

The National Board of Censorship is a committee made up of men 
and women of various occupations, who review and pass on all photo¬ 
plays produced, deciding whether or not the film in question should 
be allowed to go before the public. In addition to the National Board 
of Censorship, there are state boards which also pass on all films and 


138 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


decide whether they shall be exhibited in their own particular state. 
We also further find in various cities municipal boards which function 
in the same way as the state and national bodies, with respect, however, 
only to their own city. 

In many localities, the Board of Censorship goes to extremes and 
often bars subjects already passed by the National Board. In other 
cases, they very foolishly cut out parts of films, often spoiling the 
picture. 

Because of the fact that the censors are often extreme in their judg¬ 
ment, writers must be exceedingly careful about what they let their 
characters do. If, however, you write as your conscience dictates, 
tempering it with a sense of decency, the probabilities are that your 
plays will not meet with any serious objection. But be careful not 
to introduce scenes inviting objection, simply because you have seen 
them make a decided hit in other productions. Just because one author 
“got by,” don’t try it yourself. You may not be so fortunate. 

The Board of Censorship does not give an actual list of things they 
object to. This is probably because a certain action might be objec¬ 
tionable in one play but not in another. In other words, whether or 
not a scene is objectionable depends largely on the author’s manner of 
handling the subject. The following list, however, is very apt to 
cover all of the general subjects coming under the ban of the National 
Board of Censorship. 

The Unwritten Law. —The censors do not consider the unwritten 
law a justification for murder. 

Crime. —A picture with crime in it will not pass (1) when the 
crime is plainly the main purpose of the picture; when the entire story 
depends on the crime; or (2) when a crime is repulsive; or (3) when 
anything is barbarously killed; or (4) when a crime is executed in 
some unique manner. The reasons for the rejection of the above 
subjects are so apparent that they need not be amplified. 

Suicide. —One of the most vital aims of the Board is to eliminate 
all suggestion of self-destruction; they will not pass a picture in which 
suicide is a feature. 

Burglary. —A scene of burglary may be introduced successfully, 
provided there is no actual theft portrayed, no demonstration of the 
act. The burglar may be shown entering a house, but he must not be 
shown in the act of “breaking in.” He may be shown with his back 
to the audience rifling a safe, but he should not be seen opening the 
safe by any of the methods known only to burglars. 

Vulgarity and Suggestion. —Your play should not contain any vul¬ 
gar or suggestive action. Eliminate all questionable flirtations and 
everything verging on “rough-house.” 

Mischief. —Avoid actions that tend to suggest mischief to youthful 
people. For instance, no one in your script should play a joke on an 
invalid or a cripple. Neither should property or valuables be de¬ 
stroyed simply to perpetrate a joke on someone. 

Lynching .—The only time a lynching is permissible in a picture is 
when the lynching occurred in the days when it was commonly prac¬ 
ticed—in the days of the early West. 


Things You Should Not Write About 


139 


Deadly Weapons. —Guns, knives and deadly weapons are not ob¬ 
jectionable when they portray historical incidents. Otherwise they 
are taboo. 

Immorality. —Immorality is not tolerated unless skillfully handled. 
Remember audiences are often composed quite largely of children. 

Kidnapping. —Objectionable in some localities. 

The above is not an absolutely complete list of objectionable sub¬ 
jects, owing to the fact that new things seem to be arising all the time. 
The important thing for the new writer to bear in mind is that many 
of the things listed above are not absolutely barred from pictures. A 
great many films are produced using crime scenes, for instance; but 
the author was able to handle them in a proper manner, and probably 
the crimes were essential to the story and not the purpose of it. In 
other words, crime and even immorality may be introduced in a play 
if it is properly handled. In many cases it becomes necessary in order 
to teach a lesson. 

There are many things produced on the legitimate stage which 
would not be tolerated in the photoplay. This is because a large pro¬ 
portion of the people attending motion picture theatres are children 
or impressionable adults. Therefore the photoplay has a standard 
of its own. 

Do not confuse sincerity with suggestion. Pictures have been made 
in which women have quite properly appeared in the nude, or prac¬ 
tically so; but such action was necessary to produce the picture and 
was masterfully handled, so celevrly, in fact, that no one could take 
offense. On the other hand, a woman might unnecessarily reveal more 
of her ankle than is customary and make the scene objectionable— 
suggestive. As George Ade said about courting a haughty lady, “It 
has to be done in a certain way.” 

One type of unpleasant drama is that showing scenes of drinking 
and debauchery, wherein some character becomes badly intoxicated, 
slinks home to his sickly wife, beats her, then, after performing all 
manner of vile acts, suddenly braces up and reforms! 

The only time that murder should be shown, and that very deli¬ 
cately, is either in a detective drama or else in good tragedy, where the 
removal of some character is essential to the plot. All of Shakes¬ 
peare’s tragedies deal with crime, but they do not exploit it, and never 
revel in the harrowing details to produce a thrill. 

The producers themselves are often responsible for much of the 
objectionable appearing on the screen. In many cases, and especially 
in comedies, they introduce questionable elements to gratify a known 
demand on the part of certain elements of the public. If you are not 
going to limit the possibilities of selling your work, however, you had 
better eliminate all objectionable features in your plot. 

As a rule, no matter what you write about, the sale of your play 
depends largely on the way in which you handle your subject. If you 
are not careful, many otherwise harmless incidents may become unde¬ 
sirable. For instance, an elopement is not generally considered objec¬ 
tionable in a photoplay; in fact, the audience is quite apt to sympathize 
with the lovers when the girl’s father refuses to allow them to marry. 
But, if the boy is shown in certain scenes wasting his time, or fre- 


140 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


quenting saloons, or doing any one of perhaps a hundred similar 
things, the audience is quite likely to think the father is a good judge of 
character and give him all their sympathy. Should an elopement then 
occur, it would prove objectionable. 

Censors realize, as well as anyone, that morality is to be desired ; 
and, to this end, crime or suggestion of crime, will be permitted if it 
teaches a lesson. But crime for crime’s sake is condemned. 

Many young authors somehow have the idea that, in order to make 
their plays worth while, there must be a violent or tragic death scene. 
But the truth is that there are thousands of intensely interesting pic¬ 
tures in which there is not the slightest suggestion of death. In fact, 
a play without this depressing element is quite apt to be far superior 
to one containing it. It is a positive fact that editors return hundreds 
of otherwise good manuscripts in which there are suicides, murders and 
deaths, simply because they are too depressing to be produced. 

Depressing Subjects. 

This leads to a more detailed consideration of depressing subjects. 

People go to the movies to be entertained, to forget their troubles, 
to live for a few brief hours the life of their dreams, to be the hero or 
the heroine they unconsciously want to be in their own mind. So it 
becomes highly desirable to eliminate all depressing elements from 
your plays. 

As previously stated, death should be avoided as much as possible; 
yet it is not entirely out of place if it is absolutely necessary to the 
logical culmination of your plot. Too many stories, however, contain 
unnecessary death scenes. For this reason the author is cautioned. 
Do not imagine, however, that people go to see photoplays merely to 
laugh or to be amused. “They come to weep as well as laugh.” But 
the thing to remember is that very often a scene showing the saving 
of a life is far more welcome than one depicting death. Even though 
a character is detestable, it is not desirable to show his death, if other¬ 
wise the plot can proceed. We often feel that some characters are so 
obnoxious that it would be a good thing if they would die, but there 
is another side to the question—the good-for-evil side. Wouldn’t it be 
better to show a change of heart on the part of an evil character as a 
solution, than to exterminate him? 

A distinction should be made between gloomy pictures and those 
which simply introduce elements of sadness. Remember what the 
poet said about “a tear in the eye and a smile on the lips.” 

Offensive Plays. 

Do not offend anyone’s religious or political faiths. People do not 
object to being “talked to” in a mild or perhaps entertaining way, but 
they don’t want to have their feelings hurt. A gambler will watch 
a picture portray the evil result of his folly and not object to it; in fact, 
he may be benefited by it. He may be glad he saw it, and resolve to 
change his ways. But a man does not enjoy being ridiculed or abused 
because of his religious or political faiths. 

There have been a number of pictures released which have caused 
a world of strife among various religious denominations and even in 
the moving picture industry itself. Producers, therefore, are on their 
guard, and will not use any kind of play indulging in sectarian squab- 


Things You Should Not Write About 


141 


bles. If the beginner wishes to retain the good will of the producer, 
he had better avoid anything likely to offend religious beliefs. Leave 
religion to the churches; it has no place in the “movies.” 

Moving picture theatres are patronized by all classes of people. 
Therefore, exhibitors must be careful what they run. They must 
not “step on anyone’s feet.” 

You should be careful not to offend anyone’s political faiths, but 
you do not have to avoid writing about politics. A good story could 
be written around the suffrage question; although this topic is one 
which usually proves objectionable to producers, yet it could be han¬ 
dled in an unobjectionable manner. A play could be acceptable, too, 
if it dealt with socialism, provided it were not written for socialism’s 
sake. In other words, if you write about a political theme, politics 
should not predominate. Heart interest should be the all-engrossing 
element. This is equivalent to saying that the new writer will do 
well not to write about politics. 

Do not “knock” anybody or anything in your plays, no matter how 
strong the desire. 

Do not offend good taste. If your play is likely to prove distasteful 
to a single persons, don’t write it. Plays antagonistic to the better 
elements in people never should be written. 

Do not hold any race up to ridicule. It is permissible to make light 
humor of certain racial characteristics; but, if you do this, you must be 
careful to make the audience laugh with the characters and not at them. 

Do not write plays dealing with certain sections of the country, or 
the peculiarities of locality. Be broad in choosing your themes. Your 
work should deal with the problems of humanity in general, without 
reproach for any race, color or religion. 

Hackneyed Themes. 

Always avoid the obvious. There are a number of subjects about 
which all new writers somehow want to write. If you could review 
the hundreds of manuscripts sent to any editorial office, you would be 
surprised at the great number who write about the same old hackneyed 
plots. At first one wonders why this is. But the reason is simple. 
The beginner is quite apt to follow the line of least resistance, and 
naturally write about a worn-out subject. It is easier than to contrive 
a new one. 

In casting about for a theme or plot, many writers lazily grasp the 
first thing they come to, without trying to locate something with orig¬ 
inality. They develop their plot in the same slothful manner. The 
result is a photoplay almost exactly like hundreds of others received 
by every studio every day. It is hopelessly unsalable. 

There is a general list of subjects not wanted by any editor unless 
they are treated in an exceptionally new way; even then it is doubtful 
whether they would sell. Of course, there is no arbitrary list; but it 
is safe to say that any manuscript based on the following subjects will 
not find a ready sale unless the author is clever enough to write the 
plot in a strikingly original manner. Obviously, therefore, the best 
thing for the beginner to do is to shun a &lot based on any of the 
following subjects: 


142 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


(1) The stolen child, kidnapped by gypsies usually, and finally 
restored to its parents by means of a locket, birthmark, or some equally 
foolish means. 

(2) The child who prevents the parents from separating, or re¬ 
unites them after separation. These plays are generally called, “A 
Little Child Shall Lead Them.” 

(3) Two men in love with one girl. She gives them a common 
task to perform; one tries to win by crooked methods and is discovered. 
She marries the other. (Note—Two men in love with the same girl 
creates a hackneyed situation, but does not necessarily mean a hack¬ 
neyed photoplay. Many excellent productions have been built around 
this theme. And is safe to say that hundreds, even thousands, of other 
excellent manuscripts will be written around the same theme. But 
they will be treated in an entirely original manner by their authors, 
and the only thing hackneyed about them will be the eternal triangle 
situation.) 

(4) Plays in which a rich child, usually a cripple, is contrasted 
with a poor child, usually strong and healthy. 

(5) The husband jealous of one of his wife’s relatives, generally 
a brother who has been in South America since early youth. 

(6) The discharged workman who sets out to injure his former 
employer, but who, instead, performs some heroic task, thus regaining 
his old job. 

(7) The couple who fall in love, only to find that they are brother 
and sister, parted early in life. 

(8) The unapproved marriage finally made acceptable by a child. 

(9) A michievous little boy. 

(10) All stories requiring trick photography. 

(11) All stories based on peculiar “influences,” or other uncom¬ 
mon sources. 

(12) The burglar who enters a house and is prevented from steal¬ 
ing by a child, sometimes even his own, adopted by the family. This 
type of play usually ends with a rapid-fire reformation, very uncon¬ 
vincing, to say the least. 

(13) The ecaped convict, who steals another man’s clothes and 
gets the other party “in bad.” 

(14) The hero who assumes another’s crime because he loves the 
heroine. 

(15) Do not under any circumstances build a play around a pair 
of baby shoes. 

(16) Stories built on well-known criminal cases. 

(17) The poor lonesome character, usually friendless, moneyless, 
homeless—and, I almost said, brainless—at Christmas or Thanks¬ 
giving. 

(18) The hard-working young man, who finally gains an interest 
in “the business” and wins the “hand” of the employer’s daughter. 
The opposition in such a play generally is the foreman or a scheming 
partner. 

(19) The hero, having a duty to perform, generally an arrest to 
make, who falls in love with the evil one’s daughter, and—this is the 
“crool” thing—has to choose between love and duty. Why, there’s 


Things You Should Not Write About 


143 


the title! “Love and Duty.” These plays are turned out by the 
million. 

This isn’t the end of the list by any means. One could go on 
listing hackneyed subjects almost indefinitely. Most beginners seem 
to take a keen delight in writing about them. Nothing could make the 
rejection of their work more certain. But it is a waste of time to give 
more examples, for the list above is sufficient to give the earnest 
writer a clear idea of the type of manuscript not wanted, under ordi¬ 
nary treatment. 

Some beginners will wonder how they are to avoid hackneyed sub¬ 
jects. The first thing to do is use common sense. The next best 
antidote is a never-ending study of the screen. The rejection slips 
you receive are often good indicators, too. An extensive reading of 
books and periodicals will also greatly help you. But the capable 
and friendly critic is perhaps the best person in the world to keep you 
from wasting time and money on impossible subjects. He makes a 
study of the market and of all the plays produced; he instantly knows 
whether a plot is available. If your play comes back, and you don’t 
know why, send it to a critic and find out. 

A number of stories and plays have been produced in which some 
of the above themes listed as hackneyed have been used in some form 
or other. Take the mischievous boy for example. Who wouldn’t 
like to see Booth Tarkington’s “Penrod” come to life on the screen! 
Naturally the beginner wonders why such a play would be acceptable. 
The reason is simple. A clever writer is often able to take an impos¬ 
sible theme and do wonderful things with it. He disguises it, so to 
speak. But this is work for experienced pens. 

In General. 

Beginners frequently make the mistake of attempting extremely 
long and exhaustive subjects before they have succeeded with short 
plays. Many new writers want to begin their career with an 
“Intolerance” or a serial of twenty episodes and forty reels, generally 
on the order of one of the “perils” or “masked figure” pictures so 
well known to playgoers. 

Spectacles like “Intolerance” are subjects which have been turning 
over in the author’s mind for years. Usually the author writes and 
directs his own manuscript. He spends perhaps from two to four 
years producing it. It is hardly necessary to say, then, that this is not 
a subject for the beginner. The new writer will do well to confine 
his writing to five- or six-reel dramas and one- and two-reel comedies. 

Avoid dream stories—improbable plays finally explained by saying 
that it was all a dream. True, more or less plays are constantly being 
produced with this explanation, but the average producer will not be 
apt to purchase them from new writers. 

There is practically no demand for Bible stories. Occasionally, a 
story is produced from a Biblical subject; but the work is usually done 
by a company specially organized for the production. If you attempt 
to write Bible plays, you are doomed to failure before you start. 

Allegorical stories and labor problem plays are not wanted. Sex 
stories are rapidly going into the discard, even though now and then 
one is produced in a sensational way. Drug and liquor plays are 


144 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


rapidly disappearing. In truth, the ever-increasing aim of producers 
and exhibitors is to get away from all unclean, unwholesome, and 
unhappy subjects. There are so many bright things in the world that 
the unclean ought to be strictly avoided. People, too, have so many 
vexations in their own lives that they do not care to witness trouble 
in their entertainment. In this connection, remember again the happy 
ending. Many lives end in lost hope, broken faith, and shattered love; 
but producers are striving more and more to get away from these 
things, so the new writer will do well to gratify their desires and give 
them the happy ending. 

Many an otherwise salable photoplay has been rejected because its 
plot contained a glaring inconsistency unknown to the author. This 
does not mean that little inconsistencies in a photoplay necessarily 
cause rejection. It is only when the inconsistency is an actual element 
or important situation in the plot that it is rejected. 

Mr. Herbert Hoagland gives an excellent example of the incon¬ 
sistent situation in his book, “How To Write A Photoplay.” He says: 

“In a Civil War story the scenario called for a field hospital with 
the Red Cross flag flying from a staff. Well, the Red Cross wasn’t 
organized until the closing year of the war, and then it was done in 
Switzerland. The Southerners and the Yankees never saw this em¬ 
blem of mercy during the whole four years of strife ** 

This example should be sufficient to keep the new writer constantly 
on his guard against introducing such grossly inconsistent situations 
in any of his manuscripts. 


Chapter XII 


WRITING COMEDY 

In the photoplay world, there are few fine distinctions between the 
different types of manuscripts. Plays are loosely classified as “dramas” 
or “comedies,” depending on whether they are inclined to be serious 
or merely funny. There are, however, several distinct types of com¬ 
edy subjects. 

Various Types of Humorous Plays. 

There are four distinct types of comedy subjects: Extravaganza, 
burlesque, farce, comedy. 

Extravaganza usually treats of unnatural and impossible situations. 
The superhuman activities of a character, or set of characters, usually 
supply the plot. There is not much need to detail this type, for the 
writing of it should not be attempted by the beginner. 

Burlesque generally treats of a serious, and, perhaps, well-known 
subject, in an absurd, incongruous manner. Fox recently produced a 
burlesque of “Julius Caesar,” in which the main characters were given 
funny names similar to Shakespeare’s characters. They went through 
the regular action of “Julius Caesar” in an uproarious manner, quoting 
famous passages of Shakespeare’s in a twisted, humorous style. 

Farce goes to extremes, dealing with the ridiculous, but not with 
physical impossibilities. Though farce need not necessarily be prob¬ 
able, still it should be put on a plausible basis and worked out as 
though probable. 

Comedy is generally a more refined type of humor than farce. 
Strictly speaking, it deals with humorous situations of every-day life— 
situations which may happen to the average individual. There is 
nothing extravagant, unnatural or superhuman about comedy. It 
must be absolutely probable. Herein lies its value; its humor is real. 
Of course, humor may be carried to the extreme in comedies; but it 
should not be made incredulous. 

Why Comedy is a Difficult Art. 

Producers often announce that they are overstocked with certain 
types of dramatic subjects, such as western stories, or war stories, but 
it is a rare thing indeed to hear one say that he is overstocked with 
comedies. This is because comedy is a difficult art. The easiest 
thing for a writer to do is to appeal to the emotions. The next most 
difficult subjects are those appealing to the intellect. But by far the 
most difficult thing to do is to make an audience laugh. 

Comedy writing is becoming more difficult each year. Producers 
no longer will even consider a manuscript consisting of a string of 
disconnected incidents. Comedy now-a-days must contain a well 
laid out plot as a basis for the humor, and must be constructed exactly 
the same as dramatic plays. The incidents going to make up the plot 
cannot be grabbed from mid-air; there must be a reason for them. It 


146 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


is often laughable to give a character a ducking in a fountain, but 
there must be a reason for doing it. 

Furthermore, the old, old trick of having characters “throw things” 
—generally soft pies or other mushy articles—at each other is rather 
obsolete, to say the least. This outrage is still perpetrated in some 
comedies, but is rapidly passing into the discard. It is becoming con¬ 
stantly more difficult for the new writer to sell work in which such 
action is incorporated. All this goes to show that comedy writing 
is a truly difficult art and is becoming more exact as time passes. 

How To Write Comedy. 

Comedy must be treated in a “full” manner. There must be about 
twice as many scenes in a comedy as in a dramatic photoplay. This 
is due to the fact that the scenes are short, as a rule, and the action 
progresses more rapidly. This is one reason why comedy is difficult 
to write; not because it takes more time; not because the labor untilized 
in the mechanical preparation is extensive; but because a writer must 
put considerable brain work to the task of writing a plot containing 
twice the ordinary amount of action. 

In comedies, every scene must create a laugh. It is not possible to 
use a set of scenes having no particular comic value. This might be 
done in a dramatic subject but would not be tolerated in comedy. 
Unfortunately, however, humor does not enter into many of the scenes 
in present-day comedies. Many producers have been guilty of stretch¬ 
ing a few good ideas over several reels, but this only goes to show how 
really scarce good comedy is, and how editors are pressed for good 
subjects. 

A play is not a comedy simply because it contains a number of 
lively scenes. Many scenes are used in comedy because the action is 
rapid; but if the action is slow, there is no excuse for the many scenes. 

In your endeavor to make your treatment of comedy subjects 
“full,” do not use words uselessly and indulge in unnecessary talk. 
Do not be verbose; do not go into tiresome details. Be just as brief 
as you would be in writing a dramatic play. 

In the early days of photoplay writing, comedy subjects consisted 
of split-reels; that is, it took two or more short comedy plays to make 
one reel of film. These brief, would-be comedies have gone into the 
discard; it is practically impossible these days to find a comedy less 
than one reel in length—requiring about twelve or fifteen minutes 
for exhibition on the screen—consuming about a thousand feet of 
film. So it is useless for the new writer to attempt comedy of less 
than one reel. Two is the usual length; but very few comedy subjects 
take up more than this number. 

The first thing for the writer to decide, then, is whether his play 
should be one or two reels. If there is any doubt in his mind he should 
make it one reel. Don’t attempt to “pad” a comedy. If you do, it 
will surely drag. Better eliminate a few situations, and confine your 
plot to one reel, than try to pad it into two. 

Because comedies are short it does not follow that they sell for 
comparatively smaller sums. Comedies are so scarce that, even though 
short, they bring just as much a five- and six-reel dramatic plays. It 
is quality more than quantity that counts. 


Writing Comedy 


147 


Requirements of Comedy. 

Comedies of society life and comedies of every-day life are always 
in demand. Unusual stress is placed upon domestic scenes. The 
comedy writer should always remember that comedies of action are 
far more valuable than comedies of ideas. It is not sufficient to lead 
the characters up to a funny climax; all of the action leading to the 
climax must be laughable. Of course, there should be a humorous 
idea back of your comedy; the main theme must be facetious in itself; 
but all the time you are leading up to the climax, you must introduce 
humorous situations. 

It is a difficult matter to write a comedy of ideas. This may easily 
be done on the theatrical stage; here the characters are permitted the 
constant use of smile-provoking dialogue. But in the photoplay, the 
laughs must arise from funny action alone, with the use of a very 
few words. Take the Chaplin comedies, for instance; there are few 
or no sub-titles in them; their success depends almost entirely on the 
ludicrous adventures of Mr. Chaplin and his associates. 

Each scene in a comedy should have its own individual comedy 
action; and that action should relate specifically to the plot—and 
should help in advancing the plot to its logical climax. So if any 
scenes in your comedy are not funny, inject humor into them; but do 
not try to force the comedy, and, in so doing, introduce situations 
having no bearing on your plot. 

General Advice. 

Practically every successful comedy produced has a worth while 
plot at the bottom. This plot may be somewhat hidden by the comedy 
incidents going to make up the main situation; but it is there just the 
same, and all of the funny incidents introduced into the script have 
some direct bearing on that plot. If they didn’t, they would cease, 
in a large measure, to be funny. 

If you start to write a farce, do not switch off to comedy-drama in 
part of your manuscript. Many amateur manuscripts contain a little 
of all the different types of comedies. Emotional dramas generally 
contain comedy elements as relief for the serious, but it is poor comedy 
indeed that contains tragedy. 

Many comedy writers tend to introduce questionable elements in 
their plays. They forget that, if a joke offends good taste, it ceases 
to be funny. Also, if comedy is to be appreciated, it must be jovial. 
The new writer is likely to introduce national types in comedy; ex¬ 
travagant Frenchmen or red-whiskered Irishmen; but he quickly 
finds this type of play has long gone out of fashion. The successful 
type of comedy to-day does not treat of any particular class of people. 
The main comedians are generally ordinary Americans of no particular 
type. Some of them may act somewhat like farmers, but they are not 
pure farm types. In other words, racial and sectional characteristics 
are not wanted. 

Clean comedy is the thing in demand. In some comedies are intro¬ 
duced elements which would not be tolerated by the Censors in regular 
drama. But incidents of this kind are becoming rarer all the time, and 
the clean comedy of situation is rapidly coming into its own. 

A few years ago, almost any sort of coarse, suggestive, even vulgar, 


148 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


situations would get a laugh. The character of playgoers is changing, 
however. This type of picture, therefore, is rapidly passing. It has 
been the policy of some producers to build quite elaborate comedies 
around married life. Many of these have been questionable. In¬ 
fidelity should be left out of all comedies. It may be a fit subject for 
the legitimate stage, but not for the movies, which are patronized by 
young and old. Always remember not to introduce anything in your 
comedies likely to prove objectionable to, or be improper for, any mem¬ 
ber of the audience to view. 

The author has read hundreds of so-called comedies, in which the 
main character was described at length. This character is generally 
called Charlie. This shows that the writer had some particular actor 
in mind. In these manuscripts, Charlie runs into perhaps half a 
hundred people, who are brought into the story for a short time and 
then dropped. There really is no plot back of it all; contributory 
factions are entirely lacking, and the events are not at all connected. 
They are merely a series of more or less funny and disconnected situa¬ 
tions. Such manuscripts are absolutely worthless. 

The recoil is useful in comedies. A character goes to great pains 
to prepare what might be called a “trap” for some other character, 
and then falls into it himself. An example of this is the old “saw” 
so often used in present-day comedies; a character prepares a bomb 
for an enemy, only to find, as the action of the play progresses, that 
it comes back to him in some way or other just at the time it is about 
to explode. The humorous situations resulting in the passing of the 
bomb back and forth can readily be imagined. This bomb “gag” not 
only is an example of the recoil, but it has been used cleverly to pro¬ 
duce suspense. The suspense created by the uncertainty as to just 
when the bomb will explode is immense. 

In writing the synopsis of your comedy, do not attempt to be funny 
in telling it. A comedy synopsis should be related in a crisp, clear, 
business-like manner without resorting to jokes or puns in the telling. 
The editor wants to know if the action of your plot is funny, not your 
way of telling it. 

Comedy action should progress smoothly like a well-oiled machine. 
Each scene should glide easily to the next, without a hitch or a halt, 
constantly approaching the major climax, exactly as in drama. 


PART III 

A MODEL PHOTOPLAY 


“ The Countess Charming ” 

By Gelett Burgess and Carolyn Wells 
Scenario by Gardner Hunting 
Directed by Donald Crisp 


FEATURING JULIAN ELTINGE 


COPYRIGHT by FAMOUS PLAYERS-LASKY CORPORATION 


IMPORTANT--The Model Photoplay appearing 
on the following pages is reprinted by the courtesy 
of the Famous Players-Laskey Corporation. It is 
the actual working scenario from which the Para¬ 
mount Picture “The Countess Charming” was pro¬ 
duced. 




















Chapter I 


“THE COUNTESS CHARMING” 


IMPORTANT —The scenario for f( The Countess Charming,” 
printed below, was written by Mr. Gardner Hunting, considered one 
of the greatest scenario writers in America, from the story by Gelett 
Burgess and Carolyn Wells. Mr. Julian Eltinge, well-known 
female impersonator, was featured in this play under the direction of 
Donald Crisp. Since this is the actual working scenario used by the 
Famous Players-Lasky Corporation to produce the Paramount Pic¬ 
ture, (f The Countess Charming,” its value to the beginner is too 
obvious for comment. We take this opportunity to acknowledge our 
deep debt to the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, by whose kind 
permission this scenario is printed below. 

THE PUBLISHERS. 


“ THE COUNTESS CHARMING ” 

1. Main Title: Countess Charming. 

2. Producer’s Title: 

3. Credit Title: 

4. Subtitle: “To every cause its craft—whether to win 

a war or to woo a woman!’’ 

5. Subtitle: Members of the North Shore Country Club 

Hear a Plea for Red Cross Funds 

Scene 1. 

Int. Club Lounge—(or large general reception and dancing room, character¬ 
istic of country clubs) (IRIS IN) 

Semi-informal but considerable gathering of society folk (some in sports 
clothes, some in afternoon costumes) listening to closing words of an earnest 
plea for subscriptions made by a good type of Red Cross woman worker— 
she says: 

6. Spoken Title: “Dear friends, the world has spent billions 

to spread ruin; shall we not spend something 
to staunch a little of the flowing blood, to 
repair a few of the human wrecks, to relieve 
some of the suffering?” 

Worker making closing remarks. 

7. Subtitle: A Listener, Youthfully Honest and Unspoiled 

Enough to be Touched 

“Betty Lovering .(Miss Vidor) 

Scene 2. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Betty leaning forward—earnest-eyed—lips parted—listening eagerly and 
absorbedly. 







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How to Be a Successful Writer 


8. Subtitle: Her Mother, to Whom the Social Drift of the 

Moment is Law. 

Scene 3. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Mrs. Lovering (rather handsome, but somewhat characterless, society mat¬ 
ron) who listens a little restlessly—glances off once or twice to see what 
her neighbors are doing. 

9. Subtitle: A Guest, Lately Introduced at the Club, Too 

Interesting a Figure to Escape Gossip 
Mr. Saunders Julian .. (JULIAN ELTINGE) 

g cene 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Julian listens gravely to speaker, then turns quietly, looks off at Betty with 
quiet admiration and subtle smile of pleasure in her beauty and girlish 
earnestness. 

Scene 5. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Betty and Julian. He looks at her—she becomes conscious of his gaze, 
turns toward him, a little embarrassed by the sudden contact of eyes—hers 
droop prettily—his gaze plainly suggests beginning of love, while her slight 
confusion readily hints that she is not indifferent to him—she drops her 
eyes—as she does so, she notices his hand on chair arm. 

Scene 6. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Julian’s hand—striking ring upon it. 

Scene 7. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Betty looks at ring—then glances up at Julian—then turns to listen again 
to speaker. 

Scene 8. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Matron (calculating, restlessly ambitious type) sitting with three only mod¬ 
erately attractive, marriageable daughters and a friend—matron looks off at 
Betty and Julian—then glances significantly over her own unsought brood— 
after instant, looks again at Lovering group, whispers to her friends: 

10. Spoken Title: “After the Loverings have landed that young 

Mr. Julian, I suppose they’ll investigate the 
mystery surrounding him.” 

Matron finishes speaking. 

Scene 9. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Matron and companion. Her companion raises brows, looks off with gossip’s 
interest, inquires as to Julian’s reputed connections—matron replies: 

11. Spoken Title: . “He’s said to have been in diplomatic service 

—but no one seems able to state in what 
capacity.” 

Matron obviously jealous of the Loverings—slightly tilts head and turns 
toward Red Cross speaker—companion glances at her, then at her three 
daughters, smiles knowingly to self—abrupty turns—all the group begins 
to applaud with that patronizing, indulgent geniality society audiences dis¬ 
play on such occasions. 

Scene 10. 

Int. Club Loungs 

Speaker has just finished—audience applauding—several ladies surround 
speaker—andience begins to break up into groups. 

Scene 11. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Betty springs up and begins to talk eagerly to Julian of address—he rises, 

to listen smilingly—Mrs. Lovering hovers beside them, but glances fleetingly 


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153 


12 . 


13. 


14. 


15. 


16. 


17. 


18. 





about—presently becomes all smiles with suggestion of sycophantic greeting, 
as if important personages approach her. 

Subtitle: The Social Dictator, Who Leads the Smart 

Set—As if by a Ring in its Collective Nose! 

Mrs. Esmond Vandergrift. 

Scene 12. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Mrs. Vandergrift advances, smiling patronizingly, as if it is her whim to be 
gracious for the moment to Mrs. Lovering—(she is overdressed, much be¬ 
jewelled with rings, gemmed chains, ear-rings, etc.) 

Subtitle: And Husband—Who is Only the President 

of the Biscuit Trust, the Board of Trade and 
a Bank or Two. 

Scene 13. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Vandergrift chewing dry cigar—absently feeling for a match—(heavy type 
of big financier, who is spoiled by success and thinks his opinion should 
guide the world)—he frowning and smirking contemptuously, as if disgusted 
with what he has been listening to. 

Scene 14. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Vandergrifts greet Mrs. Lovering, who flatters with eagerness to please— 
speaks quickly to Betty, who turns with Julian to speak to Vandergrifts— 
Betty eagerly says some enthusiastic thing about address—Mrs. Van looks 
at her, cooly raising brows—Vandergrift sneers, looks from Betty to Julian, 
as if expects to find sympathy from a man—says: 

Spoken Title: “It exasperates me—this everlasting, solicit¬ 

ing, begging—grafting! They get no money 
of mine!” 

He sneers contemptously—Mrs. Van nods with disgusted approval—Van 
finds match, begins to light cigar without consideration for ladies—Julian 
takes exception to what he has said, with quick gravity, says: 

Spoken Ttitle: “I resent such sneers, sir, at great-hearted 

workers for a wonderful cause!” 

Julian very cool, but resentful—Vandergrift genuinely astonished, but grow¬ 
ing furiously angry at so public a rebuke—glances about, as if conscious of 
audience—says: 

Spoken Ttitle: “You’re very ready to tell people with money 

how to give it away! What axe have YOU 
to grind here?” 

Julian starts at insult, then coldly angry—answers: 

Spoken Title: “Some day, Mr. Vandergrift, the government 

will largely confiscate such swollen fortunes 
as yours, and apply them to real human 
needs. I hope to God it may be soon!” 

Scene 15. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Julian faces Vandergrift, as others listen—club members crowd forward 
curiously—Vandergrift almost foaming at mouth—at a loss for a reply— 
Mrs. Van steps toward Julian—with eyes blazing with contempt, says: 
Spoken Title: “Yes, doubtless you would like the Lord to 

help you help yourself!” 

Julian turns, eyes narrowing—then, realizing that affair is becoming scene 
and he cannot say rough things to a woman, turns abruptly away, offering 
arm to Betty, leading her quietly off—she indignant and much stirred, but 
accepts his hint, goes quietly—the Vans turn to look angrily at each other— 
Mrs. Lovering apologetic—people curious and gossipy. 

Scene 16. 

Red Cross worker and others come to Betty—Julian in f. g. moves forward 
to stand at her shoulder—worker distressed, embarrassed, humiliated, al¬ 
most in tears—Betty impulsively sympathetic, and resentful toward the 

Vans—takes worker’s hands, speaks quickly—Julian reaches over, takes sub- 





154 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


scription book from worker—opening it, takes out fountain pen—starts to 
write. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP subscription book) 

Julian’s hand, with handsome pen, is writing pledge 

Saunders Julian .$1,000. 

Scene 18. 

Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Julian smiles, as Betty eagerly seizes and looks at book—she delighted with 
his action, shows book to worker, who is quickly grateful, as much for his 
moral support as for his gift to cause suddenly, impulsive Betty looks up 
and about, then at Red Cross worker—considers an instant over new idea— 
then says: 

19. Spoken Title: ‘T know the other club members will give. 

I’ll get their contributions!” 

Red Cross worker doubtful for instant—Betty eagerly urges and promises— 
few of people about smile with reserved approval—one woman listens with 
half-sneer—Betty insists on helping—Julian nods, pleased with her—worker 
at last consents, thanks Betty, then turns away with friends, as if glad to 
escape the club—sneering woman turns quickly away—Betty turns to 
Julian, somewhat excitedly says means to make club members give. 

Scene 18^. 

Ext. Club (piazza or terrace) 

Vandergrifts just coming out, surrounded by group of toadies, among whom 
is Mrs. Lovering—Van fuming—Mrs. Van grim—others take cue slavishly 
from society leader, look off, as if with settled hostility to subscription 
plan—woman who sneered at Julian and Betty comes up to Van, tells him of 
Julian’s subscription—Van looks angrily off, says: 

20. Spoken Title: Subscribed a thousand, did he? Well, he’ll 

—bear watching! There’s always something 
back of such showy generosity.” 

Vandergrift sneers at Julian, off—then, as club servant brings his hat and 
Mrs. Van’s wrap (or sunshade) she takes his arm with managing gesture, 
as if saying, “Now let ME manage this affair—I’ll take care of this Mr. 
Julian!”—they go—group gossiping behind them with interest, as they 
foresee that something will happen. (IRIS OUT) 

Scene 19. 

Int. Club Lounge—(IRIS IN) 

Julian coming wandering slowly in, thoughtfully lighting cigar—group of 
men at buffet glance at him, then at each other—turn, subtly shutting him 
out of group—he sees, but feigns not to notice, looks up and off—smiles as 
some one he likes approaches. 

21. Subtitle: Julian’s Friend and Sponsor at the Club—the 

Only Man of Whom He Makes an Intimate. 
Dr. John Cavendish . 

Cavendish comes up, looks quizzically at Julian—they glance at group of men 
in b. g. turn to f. g. to talk—Cavendish says: 

22. Spoken Title: “Well, you’ve probably queered the Red 

Cross—if not yourself—with the women here. 
Few will dare back anqthing the Vander¬ 
grifts disapprove!” 

Julian grins slightly, produces cigar, holds it out to Cavendish, as if it is 
much more important consideration than the social situation—Cavendish 
looks off toward Betty, says: “But it may have serious consequences for 
your friends!”—Julian quickly serious. 

Scene 20. 

Int. Club Lounge—(Shooting into piazza) 

To show Julian and Cavendish approaching door, as Cavendish describes 
the probable consequences of offending the Vandergrifts—Julian disturbed 
now, begins to look about for glimpse of Betty, feels responsibility—after 
moment, excuses self to Cavendish to hunt for Betty—goes—Cavendish looks 
after him, subtly smiling with hearty liking. 




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155 


23 . 


24. 


25. 


Scene 21. 


Ext. Club Piazza 

Betty asks group for contributions—finds her plea falls on cold ears—stops— 
modish woman draws girl to f. g. with manner of giving friendly tip—says 
to wondering Betty. “Betty drop it, dear—people who value Mrs. Van’s 
good-will won’t subscribe now”—dissuading Betty from soliciting—woman 
goes on talking—just then, Julian comes in, stands a moment, listening— 
after instant, woman sees him, stops abruptly—Betty looks up—he says: 
Spoken Title: “I fancy you’d better take her advice, Miss 

Betty—and leave this situation to me. I’m 
responsible for it.” 

Betty protests—Julian takes book firmly from her, says: “Come—let’s hear 
what mother will say”—Betty turns with him. 


Scene 22. 

Int. Corner of Club Lounge 

Mrs. Lovering talking rather anxiously with couple of social cronies—Betty 
and Julian come in—Betty makes appeal quickly to mother, referring to 
Julian and subscription-book, etc.—Mrs. Lovering turns on Betty at once, 
condemning her having anything to do with subscription—Julian, with half- 
incredulous, half-protesting smile, tries to argue—Mrs. Lovering begins to 
scold him—Julian annoyed, but polite—Mrs. Lovering urges Betty to go 
home now—Betty says: 

Spoken Title: “But mother, I’ve promised to get subscrip¬ 

tions from the club members!” 

Mrs. Lovering disgusted, but insists she give it up and come home—Julian 
quietly smiles at Betty—approves mother’s plan—Betty distressed, yields— 
trio all turn to go. (IRIS OUT) 


Scene 23. 

Ext. Park at Vandergrift’s Home—(IRIS IN) 

As Motor arrives with the Vans—Vandergrift talks with spasmodic recur¬ 
rence of wrath over affront from Julian—as they alight and come to the 
f. g. on way on—Mrs. Van stops him—says: 

Spoken Title: “A house party at our ocean-side house, 

which includes Mr. Julian’s friends but not 
himself, will stop his social career here!” 
Van begins to grin, as sees nature of this punishment—Mrs. Van turns with 
evident purpose of putting her plan at once into execution—leads way into 
house. 


Scene 24. 

Ext. Front of Lovering House 

Motor just arrived with Loverings and Julian—all rather silent—Betty very 
unhappy—as they alight, Julian says quiet, dignified word of regret to Mrs. 
Lovering—she almost snaps at him—Betty protests in distress—Mrs. Lover¬ 
ing takes her arm, draws her away, leaving Julian unceremoniously—Betty 
looks back, but mother urges her on in—Julian takes off his hat, stands 
looking very regretfully after them, then raises brows—turns away. 

Scene 25. 

Int. Corner of Lovering Hall (flat will do, with table and phone) 

Betty and mother in—Mrs. Lovering scolds, points to phone—“You call up 
Mrs. Vandergrift this moment, young lady, and apologize for the offence of 
your escort, who will probably not have the grace to apologize for himself”— 
Betty protests—mother obdurate—Betty sinks down at table, calls number. 

Scene 26. 

Int. Corner of Mrs. Van’s Morning Room—(small corner, with desk and phone 
near window 

Mrs. Van seated with social secretary—dictating—phone rings—secretary 
answers, tells Mrs. Van who it is—Mrs. Van smiles grimly, takes phone, 
answers graciously, then listens—after moment, says: 

Spoken Title: “Why, of course you’re sorry, my dear. But 

naturally we shall all have to—ah—drop 
Mr.—ah—Julian! ” 

Mrs. Van smiles, nods, then hangs up with grim satisfaction. 


156 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Scene 27. 

Int. Corner of Lovering Hall 

Betty hangs up, wilts, then turns in distress to mother, says: “She says ‘of 
course we‘ll have to drop him’.” Mother compresses lips with instant re¬ 
solve—Betty sees, protests—mother firmly says she will not offend Mrs. 
Van, turns away, as if to take action—Betty, after instant aghast, whirls, 
runs away, crying.. (IRIS OUT) 

27. Subtitle: That Night—First Blood! 

Scene 28. 

Int. Julian's Library—(fine set)—Night—(IRIS IN) 

Julian on smoking pipe—thinking gravely, in big easy chair—Jap servant 
comes in with note, which he indicates just came by messenger—Julian sur¬ 
prised, takes note—reads: 

28. Subtitle: A Confidential Servant, of Deep Discretion 

and High Efficiency—Soto. 

Soto looks up gravely past camera, then at master, who is finishing reading 
note with distress written all over his countenance—at last, compressing 
lips, Julian turns again to first page of note—re-reads: 

29. Insert: (First page of note—delicate, feminine hand, 

on monogrammed paper.) 

Mr. Julian: 

I regret to take this step, but, in view 
of what happened today, I feel constrained 
to ask you to cease your attentions to my 
daughter Betty. I have plans for her which 
Julian sinks back in chair, lays aside pipe, stares at hearth—Soto asks if 
there is any answer—Julian slowly shakes head—Soto turns away, hesi¬ 
tatingly—Julian’s face twists with bitter emotions. 

Scene 29. 

Int. Betty’s Boudoir—(simply lace-curtained window in flat—show window 
only)—Moonlight 

Betty (negligee) stands with mother (kimono)—Mrs. Lovering telling Betty 
what she has done—Betty crying, suddenly pleads with mother—Mrs. Lover¬ 
ing silences her, turns away—Betty buries her face in curtain—sobs. 

Scene 30. 

Int. Julian’s Library—Night 

Julian sits, as before, staring fixedly into fireless grate, at last opens grim 
mouth—says vigorously, “Oh, Hell!”—kicks stand, looks off, turns to pipe, 
picks it up, slowly rises to knock ashes from it. 

Scene 31. 

Int. Julian’s Library—Night—(CLOSE-UP) 

Julian—knocks ashes from pipe, begins to fill it from jar on mantel, thinks, 
shakes head bitterly, very slow and deliberate, packs tobacco down, puts 
pipe in mouth, suddenly a thought strikes him, he pauses, stands poised, 
knits brows. 

Scene 32. 

Soto stands, peering in thru crack, worried about bad news master received, 
shakes head, peers again, then stares— 

Scene 33. 

Int. Julian’s Library—Night—(CLOSE-UP) 

Julian, as forgets to light pipe, as stares and thinks, very slowly face changes 
as idea begins to take possession of him, suddenly at last he brightens, half 
turns, hesitates, then whirls, calls off: “Soto!” 

Scene 34. 

Int. Julian’s Library—Night 

Julian waiting—Soto comes hurriedly—Julian looks at him with grim grin 
still considering his idea within self—at last, puts pipe into his mouth—says: 

30. Spoken Title: “Soto, if somebody was taking your best girl 

—away from you—and it wasn’t her fault, 
what would you do?” 

Soto grins—Julian regards him earnestly—Soto rubs hands, bows, then grins 
broadly—says: 



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157 


31. Spoken Title: “Iss, Mis’ Julian. I—fight!” 

Julian (pipe in mouth) nods grimly—then looks off—at last, beckons to Soto— 
leads way out. 

Scene 35. 

Int. Julian’s Bedroom—Night 

Julian comes in quickly with Soto and to chest in corner—opens it—looks in— 
purses lips, speaks jestingly to Soto, who regards him curiously, then grins— 
Julian stoops, raises handsome gown, holding it up to light, then lays aside 
pipe on dresser, laughs, turns, and with imitation of feminine manner holds 
gowns against self, as if to show effect, directs Soto quickly to take some¬ 
thing out of box—Soto carefully brings up fine woman’s coiffeur (wig-form) 

Scene 36. 

Int. Julian’s Bedroom—Night—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Julian laughs—says to Soto: 

32. Spoken Title: “Soto, I’ve a notion to indulge in one more— 

masquerade!” 

Soto grins expectantly—Julian laughs, suddenly tosses gown to Soto, starts 
to get out of his clothes, hustling Soto to get the rest of the necessary para¬ 
phernalia for his dressing—they hear bell—Julian nods to Soto to answer it— 
Soto goes. 

Scene 37. 

Int. Corner of Mrs. Vandergrift’s Morning Room—Night 

Social Secretary at work, addressing invitations, as if she has been already 

long at the task. Mrs. Van comes ki, looks at notes, picks one up, studies it: 

33. Insert: (Informal invitation—hand written:) 

My Dear Mrs. Loverning: 

Won’t you and Betty join us on the fif¬ 
teenth at Billowcrest for the week-end? We 
shall have a. 

Mrs. Van approves, talks to Secretary about list, noticeably crosses off name 
—unnecessary to show close-up here, to suggest that the scratched entry in 
Julian’s name). 

Scene 38. 

Int. Julian’s Library 

Soto just showing in Cavendish, who asks easily where Julian is—Soto hesi¬ 
tates, hems and bows, then says will see if his master is in—Cavendish looks 
at him with curious smirk—Soto goes off scene—Cavendish thinks, laughs, 
then with air of being privileged person, starts determinedly to follow. 

Scene 39. 

Int. Julian’s Bedroom—Night 

Julian smokes pipe while he lays out gowns, etc.—Soto enters, explains Cav¬ 
endish is coming—Cavendish strides in, stops short, looks about at gowns, 
etc.—amazed, then grins, looks around to see where the woman is—then 
says: “Well, I never thought this of you”—Julian turns, Cavendish half- 
humorously accuses him of having a woman in his rooms—Julian quite 
serious—turns—points to chest—says: 

34. Spoken Title: “A woman? Yes! Right in that box! The 

Russian Countess Raffelski—who takes a 
house here this week for the season!” 

Julian finishes title: 

Scene 40. 

Int. Julian’s Bedroom—Night—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Cavendish stares at Julian, who is grim and determined—at last, Cavendish 
says, “Well, I’ll be damned!” Julian says: 

35-36. Spoken Title: “There’s a chip on my shoulder—for the Van- 

dergrifts—and I’ve a fair lady’s cause to 
champion!” 

Julian lightly laughs—makes quick boxing motion—touches Cavendish's 
cheek—Cavendish says, “Well, by Jove!” Julian points to Soto—says: 

37. Spoken Title: “I have been advised to fight! And this is— 

my coat of mail!” 



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How to Be a Successful Writer 


Julian picks up pipe again, begins to light it—Cavendish walks slowly for¬ 
ward—Julian takes up wig, begins to talk of plans, with half-serious deter¬ 
mination—(IRIS OUT) 

38. Subtitle: When Plans Matured. 

Scene 41. 

Ext. Terrace (or secluded porch) at Betty’s House—(IRIS IN) 

On Betty and mother just sitting down to breakfast (served outside)—maid 
brings coffee and fruit, letters and morning paper—Betty sad and gloomy— 
Mrs. Lovering rallies her a little on her mood—Betty looks off unhappily— 
Mrs. Lovering opens paper in search of social news—Betty idly looks over 
letters, suddenly finds one over which she is quickly, but guardedly eager, 
opens it—reads. 

Scene 42. 

Ext. Terrace—Betty’s House—(CLOSE-UP) 

Bettey reads, grows suddenly startled, then very unhappy, turns to last page: 

39. Insert: (Last page of note—bold, strong man’s hand:) 

* * * only with deepest regret that I recog¬ 
nize your mother’s right to end our acquaint¬ 
ance, and bow to her decision. 

Sincerely, 

Sanders Julian. 

Bettey drops hands, with letter, into lap—looks across piteously at mother. 

Scene 43. 

Ext. Terrace—Betty’s House—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Betty and mother at table. Mrs. Lovering discovers social item of huge 
interest—speaks suddenly to sorrowing Betty, without noticing her grief— 
begins to read excitedly: 

40. Insert: (Double-column newspaper head, in style of 

social page:) 

Distinguished visitor here. 

Countess Raffelski, of Petrograd and Paris, 
takes Wells Street House. Will 
stay the season. 

Betty, despite sadness, opens eyes a little—mother reads on eagerly, but, 
after a moment, Betty loses interest, looks down again at her letter, suddenly 
gets up, goes softly out—Mrs. Lovering absorbed behind newspaper, goes 
on reading aloud, thinking Betty still listens—after moment, she looks up to 
see what impression she has created—is astonished to miss Betty, stares 
around, then newspaper interest is too strong for her other curiosity—she 
goes on reading. 

Scene 44. 

Ext Vandergrift Garden 

Mrs. Van picking flowers—(big sun-hat and gloves, as if this is regular 
hobby)—Secretary comes with letters and paper, points out item regarding 
Countess, as if it is part of her business to call attention to such items— 
Mrs. Van reads, with avidity. 

Scene 45. 

Ext. Vandergrift Garden—(CLOSE-UP) 

Mrs. Van reads, turning to light so camera gets flash of item to identify it— 
face takes on surprise and some chagrin that this is her first news of this 
event—she suddenly covers feeling from secretary, turns for letters: 

Scene 46. 

Ext. Vandergrift Garden—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Secretary watching—gives Mrs. Vandergrift selected, open letter—Mrs. Van 
reads: 

41. Insert: (Letter—in same strong man’s hand as 

Julian’s letter to Betty, on paper with crest 
at top:) 

My dear Madame Vandergrift: 

You will, no doubt, recall our meeting in 
Moscow. My sister has taken a fancy to stay 
the summer at * * * * 


Model Photoplay 


159 


Hands turn suddenly to last page of letter, 
as if with sudden desire to find signature) 

* * * * any courtesies you show her. 

Cordially, 

(Prince) Fedorovitch Kamenski. 

Mrs. Van looks at signature, knits brows, can’t remember the Prince, then 
subtly smiles, gratified anyway, turns to Secretary with smile and nod, says 
will attend to matter after breakfast, turns to gardening—Secretary looks at 
her with almost veneration as she goes—after moment, Mrs. Van loogs guard¬ 
edly over sholder after secretary—then pauses, tries to remember Prince 
Fedorovitch—at last shrugs, smiles—(IRIS OUT) 

Scene 47. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room—(IRIS IN) 

On handsome set, somewhat overfurnished—(one feature is life-size of Venus 
or Aphrodite, rather boldly nude)—Hold on empty set for moment—then 
Soto comes slowly in, turns, awaits Countess, who presently follows—she is 
on inspection tour (in handsome tailored gown, suit, street or traveling cos¬ 
tume—very queenly, very charming)—looks about with lorgnette—Dr. Cav¬ 
endish follows her in, grinning with interest. 


Scene 48. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess peers about, presently sights statue, eyes widen with amusement— 
she feigns to be somewhat shocked—turns half away, shielding her eyes with 
mock modesty—looks at Cavendish, off—shakes head—“My deah doctor! 
Shocking!” Then suddenly grins, very mannishly pokes Cavendish in ribs, 
turns to look at other things—(IRIS OUT) 

42. Subtitle: The Presentation. 


43. 


Ext. Club Lawn—(IRIS IN) 

On gay scene, club folk in considerable numbers and festive array—tennis 
in background—golf in distance—Vandergrifts just arriving—being greeted 
by eager and interested friends—all women mildly excited over anticipated 
meeting of Countess. 

Scene 50. 

Ext. Club Lawn—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Mrs. Vandergrift talks with friends—Van, bored with society thing, gets out 
cigar, turns to old bird of his sort—the two go for smoke—women inquire 
eagerly of Mrs. Vandergrift regarding Countess—Mrs. Van says: 

Spoken Title: • “Oh, yes, the Countess’ brother, Prince Ka¬ 

menski, wrote me that she was coming. I 
called yesterday—but missed her” 

Mrs. Van speaks with very nonchalant air of assurance—goes on talking. 


Scene 51. 

Ext. Club Porch 

Betty and Mother arriving—Mrs. Lovering eager, interested—looks all about 
for important folk—Betty forlorn and unhappy—glances about surreptitiously 
in hope of seeing Julian—Mrs. Lovering sees group on lawn—urges Betty 
at once that way. 

Scene 52. 


Ext. Club Lawn 

Mrs. Van and her court move toward first tee of golf links—Mrs. Van be¬ 
having as if not particularly excited over prospect of meeting Countess—as 
they go to background Mrs. Lovering and Betty come hastening after them— 
Mrs. Lovering hurries Betty. 

Scene 53. 


Ext. Club Drive 

Mrs. Van and others come to drive to cross it toward links as Mrs. Lovering 
and Betty catch up with them—all pause for greetings—after moment, some 
one suddenly discovers motor arriving, off—all turn to look with quick 
interest—motor sweeps into scene—in it are Dr. Vavendish and Countess— 
he sees group of ladies, orders chauffeur to stop quickly—leaps down to 
assist Countess out. 


160 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Scene 54. 

Ext. Club Drive—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Cavendish gallantly assisting Countess to alight—(she in elaborate afternoon 
toilet, or gorgeous sports clothes, extremely modish, a trifle bizarre, but all 
exquisite smiles and graciousness)—she descends, tossing wrap to club ser¬ 
vant, as group of women approaches—motor goes—Mrs. Van with others 
comes smilingly forward—Cavendish turns to them eagerly, begins to pre¬ 
sent Countess. 

Ext. Club Drive—(CLOSE-UP) 

Mrs. Vandergrift greets Countess, very cordial, but with hint of anxiety to 
please showing thru her stiff dignity—Countess vivacious, but with nice 
touch of deference to this leader of local society—Mrs. Van commits self 
to entire endorsement of Countess. 

Scene 56. 

Ext. Club Drive—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Other women crowd up around Mrs. Vandergrift and Countess, eager for 
introduction—at one side is Betty, watching Countess’ face with rather 
pathetic eyes—Countess acknowledges introductions right and left; suddenly, 
as if just catching sight of Betty, she turns to girl, to whom she is not yet 
introduced, stretches out hands with impulsive caprice which her rule 
justifies. 

Scene 57. 

Ext. Club Drive—(CLOSE-UP) 

Betty and Countess. Betty is a little surprised—Countess smiles, seizes 
girl’s shoulders, looking at her with frank delight—says: 

44. Spoken Title: “Oh, my deah! What a wonderful com¬ 

plexion! For such loveliness I could—ah, 
what you say?—embrace you!” 

Betty charmed with the compliment and graciousness of it—Countess beams 
upon her. 

Scene 58. 

Ext. Club Drive—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess turns to Mrs. Vandergrift, insists on instant introduction to Betty— 
as Mrs. Van introduces them, Countess pats Betty’s cheek, shakes her head 
in delighted admiration. 

Scene 59. 

Ext. Club Drive—(CLOSE-UP) 

Cavendish in background—slightly startled, but tremendously interested and 
amused. 

Scene 60. 

Ext. Club Drive—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Mrs. Vandergrift presents Mrs. Lovering—Countess gracious, turns suddenly 
with Betty toward the links, laughs cheerfully about at whole group—says: 
“Oh, let us see the golf—I adore it!” Leads way off. 

Scene 61. 

Ext. First Golf Tee 

Several men and athletic girl or two (golf costume) arguing over some 
point, as one prepares to drive off (man about to drive is one of those who 
refused to contribute to Red Cross at Betty’s request)—he takes off coat, 
lays it on sand-box—just then, all see Countess and others approaching, turn 
to greet them. 

Scene 62. 

Ext. Golf Links—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess coming, with her arm in Betty’s—making protege of her—others 
following—as they go thru foreground Cavendish comes in with pair of 
gossipy and eager dowagers—they pause in foreground ask him question— 
with air of mild surprise at their ignorance—he answers: 

45. Spoken Title: “The Countess? Yes, indeed! She is scan¬ 

dalously rich—and a leader in Petrograd so¬ 
ciety!” 




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161 


46. 


47. 


48. 


49. 




Women impressed, press eagerly forward—Cavendish grins with sporting 
enjoyment of game—follows slowly. 

Scene 63. 


Ext. First Tee 


Countess receiving last of introductions to group there, all charmed with 
her—men very admiring and attentive—forgetting their fame for her—she 
turns as Cavendish comes up, still holding Betty’s hand which she has now 
taken, she asks doctor: 

Spoken Title: “But wheah is my friend, Saunders Julian? 

You said he was heah!” 

There is immediate awkward moment—Cavendish starts, looks half around 
at Countess, then at Mrs. Vandergrift—Countess follows his glance at Mrs. 
Van, widens eyes as Mrs. Van stiffens and says coldly: “Mr. Julian is not 
being received here!” Countess stares, then purses lips with humorous dis¬ 
may—then says: 

Spoken Title: “Not being received! Oh, but I shall receive 

him!” 

All listen agog—Mrs. Van in dilemma between dislike of Julian and wish to 
remain in Countess’ good graces. 

Scene 64. 

Ext. First Tee—(CLOSE-UP) 

Of Countess. Glances down at Betty with subtle hint of seeing how she will 
take it, as she says: 

Spoken Title: “Why, Saundie and I were—what you call?— 

great pals, in Vienna! I—why, I love him 
like a brotheh!” 

As Betty starts and looks up, Countess looks off quickly, smiles about as if 
innocent of any intention to interest Betty—Betty quickly in doubt whether 
to like this remarkable endorsement of Julian by such a pretty and sophis¬ 
ticated woman. 


Scene 65. 


Ext. First Tee 

Mrs. Van tries to smile—Countess turns from her to men—says: “But, do 
not let us interrupt the sport—proceed—play!”—one of the men immediately 
offers her his place in game—she laughs, hesitates, all urge her—she gives 
Betty a pat, accepts, goes forward to tee. 

Scene 66. 

Ext. Countess’ Back Yard 

In corner of hedge, Soto and another Jap just completing thinning out place 
where one can get thru—sort of secret gate (if fence is more convenient, 
make it concealed swing gate)—Soto demonstrates by passing thru once or 
twice—then says: 

Spoken Title: “Now the honorable Countess go through to 

Mist’ Julian hiss house, w’en she like ver’ 
sudden to beat it!” 

Japs grin at each other, gather up tools and debris, start away. 

Scene 67. 


Ext. First Tee 

Countess just ready to tee off, all watch, she drives, all look after ball, ap¬ 
plaud, as if at very successful start—she laughs, steps back to sand-box, 
stands to watch her opponent drive off—(he is owner of coat on sand-box)— 
he begins fussily to place his ball—all watch him. 

Scene 68. 

Ext. First Tee—(CLOSE-UP) 

Of Countess. Countess stands beside man’s coat on sand-box, looks down 
at it, then, looking guardedly off, puts her hand against it, feels of it, feels 
pocket-book, hesitates an instant, looking quietly about, then slips her hand 
inside coat, brings out wallet, with pretense of looking off toward club, 
as if charmed with view, she turns back to crowd, looks quickly at wallet. 

Scene 69. 

Ext. First Tee—(CLOSE-UP) 

Of wallet. Countess’ hands hastily open it—it is fat with money—she hastily 
closes it. 


162 


How to Be a Successful Writer 
S cene 70. 


50. 


51. 


52. 


Ext. First Tee 

Man just driving off—Countess turns—tucking wallet into gown—Mrs. Van 
and others applaud drive—Countess claps her hands—calls out compliments 
—then turns and smiles indulgently at Mrs. Van who is displaying consider¬ 
able enthusiasm—Countess says: 

Spoken Title: “It is such a pleasha, my deah Mrs. Vander- 

grift, to see such enjoyment of sports in one 
of youah matuah yeahs!” 

She smiles with pretended admiration as if utterly unconscious of the sting 
in her words—Mrs. Van starts, bridles, but as Countess turns easily away, 
she quells her anger for policy’s sake, looking about and speaking with 
superior patronage of Countess to those around her—only Bettey, beside 
Mrs. Van, smiles faintly at clever stab—looks wonderingly after Countess. 

Scene 71. 

Ext. First Tee—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess joins her opponent on caddie—is just ready to start off for con¬ 
tinuation of game—opponent turns to get coat—picks it up—turns to her, 
half mechanically feeling for wallet—Countess exchanging merry bandinage 
with Cavendish, who has come up to compliment her on her play, etc.—sud¬ 
denly coat-owner misses wallet—utters exclamation and all look. 


Scene 72. 


Ext. First Tee 

Owner of pocket-book whirls—looks about for it on sand-box on ground 
under people’s feet, etc.—explains hastily—turns to foreground and searches 
pockets—dismayed—Countess presses up with anxious inquiry—he tells her 
he’s lost his wallet, etc.—she all sympathy instantly—takes his coat and 
pats pockets as if she thinks SHE can find it—he searches waistcoat inner 
pocket—she comes close to him—all sweet and grave interest—pats his 
waistcoat and his hip pocket. 

Scene 73. 

Ext. First Tee—(CLOSE-UP) 

Countess, her face raised to his—with the emotional sympathy of her sort— 
he rather a fool in his concern over his money—she takes his hand—pats it 
soothingly—then touches her breast—where at that moment reposes the 
stolen pocket-book—she says: 

Spoken Title: “Ah, deah friend! I have great sympathy 

for youah lost money! I assuah you—it 
touches my heart!” 

Countess all sympathy, but man turns away from her rather rudely, thinking 
only of his loss—he says hastily that he must go to the club house and 
search—as others talk with him another of the men who refused to sign 
Betty’s subscription book turns to Countess. 

Scene 74. 

Ext. First Tee—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess and second man—he comments on other man’s loss—she smiles 
at him—then looks off through lorgnette as if in anxious sympathy—then 
looks again at her companion—he flattered by her graciousness to him— 
turns head—looks back toward others as if in comment—Countess grace¬ 
fully puts her lorgnette against his tie, as if half playfully—as he does not 
notice, she makes quick careful movement to lift his diamond pin. 

Scene 75. 

Ext. First Tee—(CLOSE-UP) 

Lorgnette,—just lifting handsome diamond pin from tie—pin comes out— 
starts out of picture on lorgnette. 

Scene 76. 

Ext. First Tee—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess—takes pin calmly from lorgnette—holds it concealed in hand— 
man turns—she looks at his tie—suddenly says: 

Spoken Title: “But what has happened to the beautiful, ex¬ 

quisite diamond I saw you weah, today?” 

Man grabs at his tie—discovers his loss—aghast—whirls suddenly—thinks— 
turns to Countess who pretends to be shocked—then he becomes alarmed 



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163 


and cries out, “Why, my diamond pin has disappeared, too!” everybody 
turns—all begin to look about as if to see who could be a suspicious char¬ 
acter, etc. 

Scene 77. 

Countess distressed—Mrs. Van assures her such a thing has NEVER before 
happened in THIS club—suggests that the game can go on—but Countess 
shakes head—“Oh, no, let us not play golf—let us go to the club house and 
search! <’—all start—two robbed men hurrying ahead—rest gossiping— 
Countess calmly slips the purloined pin into her belt—(or other portion of 
gown)—joins Betty—Cavendish follows her, watching her curiously. 


Scene 78. 


Int. Club Lounge 

Vandergrift and one or two friends playing a rubber of whist—smoking con¬ 
tentedly—robbed men hurry in—tell their news—servants up and listen— 
men begin to inquire of servants as to strangers about, etc.—whist game 
breaks up—crowd' gathers—Vandergrift, after listening, turns to phone at 
hand—tells others will summon detectives—calls number. 


53. 


Scene 79. 


Ext. Police Station 

Policemen and detectives pitching horse-shoes below office window, inside 
which sits man at desk—he answers phone, shows surprise, calls out win¬ 
dow—officers gather—desk man singles out one detective—calls him up. 
Subtitle: “Gentleman Jess”, Specialist in Upper Crust 

Crimes .Detective Boyle 

Scene 80. 


Ext. Police Station—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Boyle at window talks to Lieut, inside—(Boyle sleek-looking detective, 
rather conceited and thinking well of self)—Lieut, tells him of club thefts— 
he opens eyes—then grins—others crowd up to listen—ask grinning ques¬ 
tions—Boyle turns to go. 

Scene 81. 


Int. Club Lounge 

Vandergrift in foreground—has set down phone—is lighting cigar—Countess 
comes with Betty and others—looks at him, he sees her—stops, staring at 
her—taken at first sight—she smiles at him with affectation of shyness— 
Betty recognizes that they have not met—introduces them—Countess very 
arch and flattering to Van—he hugely pleased with her—fumbles his cigar— 
looks foolish—she daintily takes it from him—says: “Poor man, you’re dying 
to smoke!” 


Scene 82. 


Int. Club Lounge—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess puts cigar into Van’s lips—takes his match—lights it—holds it 
while he puffs—she smiles winningly into his face as she does it, as if only 
solicitous to give him pleasure—old Van is her slave—then, as he starts to 
talk to her she suddenly says: “Oh, but I must look to my valuables—perhaps 
I’ve been robbed, too!”—she turns hurriedly away—Van starts after her— 
fascinated—Betty turns unnoticed away. 


Scene 83. 

Int. Ladies’ Cloak Room 

Room empty—Countess shown in by maid who points to where her wrap 
hangs—Countess takes it down quickly—examines it—seems to miss some¬ 
thing—exclaims—maid startled—Countess tells maid to run to tell other 
women to come and look to their valuables—maid turns—runs off—Countess 
looks after her an instant—then whirls to coats and hooks. 


Scene 84. 

Int. Ladies’ Cloak Room—(CLOSE-UP) 

Countess hastily looking for valuables—after instant, she finds purse in a 
coat pocket—takes roll of bills—drops purse back in pocket—then, side 
toward audience, hastily raises skirt—slips bills into stocking—suddenly 
starts, drops skirt, without changing attitude, begins to look excitedly 
through folds of her own wrap. 



164 How to Be a Successful Writer 

Scene 85. 

Int. Cloak Room 

Several ladies hurry in with maid who summoned them—all excited—Count¬ 
ess turns instantly on them—exclaims: 

Spoken Title: “My emerald brooch! I left it on my wrap; 

it, too, has disappeared.” 

All excited—ladies begin to hunt through wraps—Betty comes in—Countess 
bemoans loss—very snobbish type of woman who owns coat from which 
Countess took money, suddenly discovers her loss—turns angrily on maid— 
begins to berate her. 

Scene 86. 

Int. Cloak Room—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Snob, maid and Countess. Snob accusing maid—Countess turns on her, she 
protests: 

Spoken Title: “Madame! Remember, the men also have 

been robbed! The maid is as innocent as— 
as I myself!” 

Snob abashed at rebuke from Countess—maid looks gratefully at her— 
Betty solicitous—other women chatter, but none miss anything—Countess 
describes her brooch to sympathetic listeners—then turns smilingly to 
Betty—shrugs, “Oh, well, what care I for one little brooch?”—adds: 

Spoken Title: “Money will purchase new feminine trinkets, 

my deah—but will not buy back lost mo¬ 
ments with the gentlemen!” 

Betty smiles in spite of self—Countess draws her to door. 

Scene 87. 

Ext. Club Porch 

Fast motor draws up to steps—Detective Boyle jumps down—inquires of 
servant—then hurries in. 

Scene 88. 

Int Club Lounge 

Vandergrift and other men discuss robbery with robbed men—Countess and 
Betty come—men all attentive to Countess—as she tells of lost brooch—Boyle 
comes with servant—robbed men quickly tell story—woman, whose purse 
the Countess emptied, comes hurrying in—tells her story—all agog. 

Scene 89. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Countess watches Betty with subtle smile—Betty looks off—listens in girlish 
excitement—Countess says to her: 

Spoken Title: “Some people it hurts sadly to be—parted 

from theah money, my deah!” 

Betty starts—looks up—then giggles—then nods—looks up, as if wondering 
if Countess has any deeper meaning in this seemingly chance remark. 

Scene 90. 

Int. Club Lounge 

Boyle finishes questioning the people who have lost money—comes to fore¬ 
ground to Countess—looks at her grimly—she smiles winningly at him— 
puts out her hand with her charming impulsiveness—says: 

Spoken Title: “Ah, capitan! It is worth the loss of my little 

brooch to meet one* of the clevah American 
detectives of whom I heah so much!” 

Boyle instantly gratified—swells—becomes abashed at the same time— 
Countess goes on flattering him—she smiles into his eyes, as she tells of 
own loss. 

Scene 91. 

Int. Club Lounge—(CLOSE-UP) 

Countess smiles into Boyle’s eyes—he perks up—grins rather foolishlv ijack 
—he is as quickly a prey to her wiles as the rest (Don’t play this too broadly 
—a little subtlety will be funnier and more convincing). 

Scene 92. 

Int. Club Lounge 

Detective tells crowd and Countess in particular that he will find the thief— 
Countess thanks him prettily—turns to foreground with Bettey and her 




Model Photoplay 


165 


mother, while Boyle looks surreptitiously after her—she turns—smiles a 
little archly at him over her shoulder—he hugely pleased—Cavendish comes 
up—speaks to Countess—she says: “Oh, I am going home now; you needn’t 
come, unless you like”—then to Betty: 

59. Spoken Title: “Let me take you home, my deah! The men 

will be too much excited now to be inter¬ 
esting!” 

Betty laughs—Mrs. Lovering assents—they turn to Mrs. Van who comes up 
at hand—explain they are going—Countess says: “These robberies have 
made me so nervous, my deah!” Mrs. Van nods sympathetically—then says: 

60. Spoken Title: “But Countess, I must claim you for my house- 

party at Billowcrest next week!” 

Countess all smiles instantly—“Oh, but surely! How delightful! I will by 
all means come!”—bows—turns away with Betty. Mrs. Lovering lingers to 
take special leave of Mrs. Van—then goes. 


61. 


Scene 93. 


Int. Club Lounge 

Boyle talks with men about the robberies—Mrs. Van comes into foreground 
as men talk—she beckons to detective—he crosses promptly to her—she 
says: 

Spoken Title: “I’m giving a house party at my seaside home. 

I want protection from such thefts as have 
occurred here!” 

Boyle interested—she asks him if HE could come down to Billowcrest, etc.— 
he nods—promises to arrange it—she bows—goes. 


Scene 94. 

Ext. Betty’s Home 

Countess’ handsome motor brings Betty, Mrs. Lovering and Countess to 
curb—footman opens car door—Mrs. Lovering out—Countess detains Betty 
by hand—she says: 

62. Spoken Title: “I’m suah you are a heart-breakeh, my deah. 

Are you youahself quite fancy-free?” 

Betty laughs—looks down. 

Scene 95. 

Ext. Betty’s Home 

Countess takes Betty’s hand—quizzes her playfully—Betty holds Countess’ 
hand in both of hers—abashed, she turns one of Countess’ rings (handsome 
ruby solitaire of odd design) 

Scene 96. 

Ext. Betty’s Home 

CLOSE-UP Betty’s fingers. Turn to Countess’ ring. 

Scene 97. 

Ext. Betty's Home—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess says: 

63. Spoken Title: “You must know Saunders Julian bettah. He 

already possesses MY heart!” 

Scene 98. 

Ext. Betty’s Home 

Betty laughs shyly—alights—Countess waves—Loverings turn to go into 
house as car starts. 

Scene 99. 

Ext. Lovering Doorsteps 

Betty and mother up—Mrs. Lovering pauses to look at a vine—Betty gazes 
wistfully at her—at last says: 

64. Spoken Title: “Mother, if Mr. Julian is the Countess’ 

friend he may certainly be ours!” 

Mrs. Lovering turns quickly on Betty—stares at her for a moment—Betty 
abashed—then Mrs. Lovering says: “I refuse to open that subject again at 
present, my dear. You will obey me in the matter!” she turns—goes in— 
Betty turns slowly, disappointed—then her lips begin to set—she will take 
action on her own account—she takes a resolution—goes in. 


166 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Scene 100. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir 

Countess in—just taking off wig, with huge sigh of relief—begins to get out 
of women’s togs as fast as-possible—Soto in attendance—eagerly helps—she 
takes cigar—lights it—then takes out bills, pocketbook, etc. from neck and 
stocking—lays them on dresser—grins then takes up small book and pencil— 
begins to make record of them. (IRIS OUT) 

65. Subtitle: At the Edge of an Enterprise! 

Scene 101. 

Ext. Vandergrift Home—(IRIS IN) 

On Vandergrifts just embarking in motor with servants and luggage for 
their seaside home. 

Scene 102. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir 

Julian in Countess’ wig, just finishing dressing in smart costume with Soto’s 
assistance—near at hand sits Cavendish looking on with amusement—an¬ 
other Jap man is packing last grip, and two large trunks stand in back¬ 
ground—as Julian finally becomes the Countess, “she” turns grinning to 
Cavendish—picks up jewel-box—takes out and shows the “loot” from her 
club thefts—says: 

66. Spoken Title: “So far, my deah Cavendish, the North Shore 

Club has contributed fairly generously to my 
—campaign!” 

Cavendish stares—then laughs—Countess gives jewel-box to Jap to pack— 
surveys self in mirror—fixes hair-pin or two—then smiles approval—picks 
up two cocktails from tray at hand—gives one to Cavendish—then they 
touch glasses—toast the success of her plans—suddenly remembers pipe 
and tobacco jar—gives them, also, to Jap to pack—laughs—drinks—then 
whirls to wardrobe trunk. 

Scene 103. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess snatches gowns from wardrobe trunk—holds them up to display— 
laughs proudly—(gowns are beautiful)—then she shows mass of exquisite 
lingerie—Cavendish comes in—looks at it—grins—says: 

67. Spoken Title: “But no one will see THIS!” 

Countess looks up—laughs—says, “Is that so!”—then, with sly grin, adds: 

68. Spoken Title: “You never can tell; there might be a fire!” 

They laugh—Countess gives word to start—leads the way out—(IRIS OUT) 

69. Subtitle: “Billowcrest” Receives its Guests. 


Scene 104. 

Ext. Lawn at Billowcrest—(Handsome house in background) (IRIS IN) 

On gathering of guests (all in flannels and sport clothes)—some in fore¬ 
ground shaking hands—others just arriving in motors with bags, etc.—some 
just coming from house, as if they have had time to dress, etc.—guests in 
foreground fan selves—speak of the unusual heat, etc. 


Scene 105. 


Ext. Billowcrest Lawn 

(Shot across lawns to show sea, if feasible—(might get it at the Virginia?) 

Scene 106. 

Ext. Billowcrest Porch 

Vandergrift receiving guests with cordial informality—directing servants, 
etc.—Betty comes from house with mother—all talk—motor rolls up with 

Countess and Cavendish—second motor behind with Jap maid with bags_ 

Countess descends gaily—waves to Mrs. Vandergrift—she hurries up steps. 

Scene 107. 

Ext. Billowcrest Porch—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Mrs. Vandergrift greets Countess effusively—then casually shakes Caven¬ 
dish’s hand—Mrs. Vandergrift very much interested in Countess—Mrs. Lov¬ 
ering and Betty come from house—join them—Countess instantly shows her 
favor for Betty—draws here to her side—pinches her cheek—beaming on 
her—nods, smiles at Mrs. Lovering—other guests come from house—crowd 
up, to be noticed by Countess—in background Detective Boyle wanders in— 


Model Photoplay 


167 


sights Countess—braces up with conscious smile, as he looks for bow— 
Countess sees him—immediately exclaims—beckons—speaks. 

Scene 108. 

Ext. Billowcrest Porch—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Boyle flattered and delighted—comes forward with somewhat crude exhibi¬ 
tion of gallantry—Mrs. Vandergrift explains he is here to prevent repetition 
of thefts, etc.—Countess gives him her hand with unusual favor—he bows 
over it—swells with gratification afterward—Countess smiles on Betty, but 
Betty’s response is a little forced—she is jealous and doubtful of the Countess 
—Countess fans self—says: 

70. Spoken Title: “Oh, isn’t it wahm? I’m dying to get into the 

surf!” 

Guests about to applaud this idea—Boyle looks over Countess’ figure—thinks 
he wouldn’t mind seeing her in bathing costume—says, “By all means, let 
us enjoy a bathe”—guests begin calling off, announcing to others the plan— 
some hustle away to prepare at once—Countess goes in with Mrs. Vander¬ 
grift. 

Scene 109. 

Ext. Billowcrest Porch—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Boyle looks after Countess—fascinated, as she goes—Cavendish in back¬ 
ground grins at him—goes in, also. 

Scene 110. 

Ext. Lawn at Billowcrest 

Young people race to get bathing suits—one boy comes running—waving his 
suit. 

Scene 111. 

Ext. Bath Houses 

Workmen just finishing cleaning them out—boy comes running with suit— 
goes in one—slams door in terrible hurry to be first in—after moment, two 
pretty tom-boy girls come pell-mell after him and into next compartment. 

Scene 112. 

Ext. Lawn at Billowcrest 

Guests, with Betty, come laughing and chaffing from house with bathing- 
suits—others, who will not swim, turn toward beach—Countess comes mer¬ 
rily out with bathing-suit under arm—guests capture her—all go rollicking 
off toward beach. 

Scene 113. 

Ext. Beach 

Boy comes racing from bath house in bathing-suit—dances—yells triumph¬ 
antly as he pounds on girls’ door—girls suddenly open door—come out— 
barely inside their suits—just finishing last buttons—trio race for water. 

Scene 114. 

Ext. Bath Houses 

Countess arrives with Betty and others—is assigned end bathhouse next to 
shrubbery—she begins to loosen her clothing, as she slips laughingly in— 
tells the rest she will beat them all into surf—others scramble for bath 
houses—Vandergrift hurries in with suit—looks about—then goes into com¬ 
partment. 

Scene 115. 

Ext. Porch of House 

Very tall and thin man in glasses comes gingerly out (striped bathing-suit 
and bare feet)—looks off—then begins very cautiously to step down path— 
favoring his tender feet. 

Scene 116. 

Ext. Shrubbery 

Boyle wanders slowly in—looks about—then off, as if trying to get good view 
of beach—selects place—then can’t see—selects another—looks off—grins. 

Scene 117. 

Ext. Beach—(As seen by Boyle from a little distance) 

Bathers beginning to come from bath houses. 

Scene 118 

Ext. Beach 

Bathers coming out—look about for Countess—see her door still closed— 


168 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


laugh at her slowness—Vandergrift comes hurrying (fat and funny old 
figure in bathing-suit)—all wonder at Countess’ delay—Mrs. Vandergrift 
arrives with ladies who do not swim—all wait—at last Countess’ door begins 
to open. 

Scene 119. 

Ext. Beach—(CLOSE-UP bath house door) 

It opens slowly by littles—presently Countess puts her head out—sees line-up 
of waiting bathers. 

Scene 120. 

Ext. Beach 

Line-up of expectant bathers waiting to see Countess. 

Scene 121. 

Ext. Beach—(CLOSE-UP bath house door) 

Countess puts out a bare arm—waves at them, as if to shoo them away— 
then she laughs—suddenly flings open the door—slips out—a marvel of a 
figure in a daring suit—she throws kisses toward camera—then runs—jumps 
through foreground. 

Scene 122. 

Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess jumps in among bathers—catches hold of two of the men, whom 
she merrily roughs a little—Betty looks on, a little disapproving—she is 
somewhat out of conceit with the Countess. 

Scene 123. 

Ext. Shrubbery 

Boyle, in his look-out, grins wide-eyed at sight—then decides he is too far 
away—looking about, moves hastily forward. 

Scene 124. 

Ext. Beach 

Countess leads romping on the sands—challenges men to catch her—they 
try—she whirls to foreground just as a very sedate looking little man comes 
carrying set of boxing gloves—she sees them—pounces upon him—she in¬ 
quires “Why the gloves?”—he explains, with the seriousness of one who 
takes exercise as a duty, that he warms up with them. 

Scene 125. 

Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess laughs—seizes pair of the gloves—slips them on—challenges him 
to spar—he scared at her exuberance—demurs—backing away and offering 
gloves to younger man, who takes them willingly. 

Scene 126. 

Ext. Shrubbery 

Boyle peering out—becomes again dissatisfied with his distance from scene— 
again moves forward. 

Scene 127. 

Ext. Beach 

Countess boxes with young man—dances all around him—taps him at will— 
he tries to tap her, but can’t touch her—crowd applauds—old Vandergrift 
shakes with laughter—just them a servant comes to him with telegram. 

Scene 128. 

Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Vandergrift opens telegram with sudden interest, while servant waits— 
after instant, he borrows pencil from servant—begins to write translation of 
code from memory on telegram. 

Scene 129. 

Ext. Beach 

Countess boxing with young man—he tries to catch her—leaves himself 
wide open—she suddenly steps in—slugs him with right and left so vigorously 
that he throws up his hands and she dances away laughing, while crowd 
applauds. 

Scene 130. 

Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Vandergrift completes translation of telegram, as his wife joins—curious 
about message—he shows it to her: 




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169 


Insert: (Code telegram with translation written on it) 

No market for Gramercy take rise on fox fur. 
(Translation:) 

No dividend by U. S. Biscuit clean up by sell¬ 
ing short—written over code words. 

Vandergrifts grin over telegram—Vandergrift folds it—starts absently to put 
it into his pocket—finds no pocket in bathing suit—Mrs. Vandergrift says 
she will put it in her bag—he just giving it to her when Countess (boxing- 
gloves) comes racing in from background pursued by others—dodges 
around Vandergrift—she notices telegram as Mrs. Vandergrift puts it in bag— 
she instantly affects seriousness—inquires, “No bad news, I hope?”—Van¬ 
dergrift smiling somewhat foolishly at her as she stands with hand on his 
arm, reassures her—she says: 

Spoken Title: “Oh, yes! Telegrams do not mean bad news 

to you wonderful market kings!” 

Countess all smiles at Vandergrift—then glances covertly at Mrs. Vander- 
grift’s bag, as she closes it—talks with alluring flattery to Vandergrift and 
he almost coos with pleasure in her attentions—Mrs. Vandergrift looks at 
them, bridling a bit with jealousy as they turn away—as Countess and Van¬ 
dergrift go toward beach, Boyle comes slowly in from background—eyes 
fixed on Countess as if he has been finally drawn from cover by the magnet— 
Mrs. Vandergrift looks at him—sees his fixed gaze—she is disgusted—says, 
sarcastically: 

Spoken Title: “Hardly the place to look for pickpockets, 

detective!” 

Boyle starts—turns—then grins—both look off. 


Scene 131. 

Ext. Beach 

Bathers in group about Countess as she sheds gloves and proposes a dance— 
she grabs Vandergrift to make him dance. 

Scene 132. 

Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Boyle and Mrs. Vandergrift—he embarrassed—then begins to explain that 
he must neglect no portion of the place, etc. 


Scene 133. 

Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess ends brief dance with Vandergrift—laughs—then turns to fore¬ 
ground—looks covertly off toward Boyle and Mrs. Vandergrift. 


Scene 134. 

Ext. Beach 

Boyle and Mrs. Vandergrift (as seen by Countess)—Mrs. Vandergrift lec¬ 
tures Boyle—then turns away as if to go to house—Boyle glances regretfully 
toward camera—then turns to return to grounds in slightly different direc¬ 
tion from Mrs. Vandergrift. 

Scene 135. 


Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess stands looking off while others rollick in background—Betty comes 
in—Countess slowly and absently twists ruby ring on her finger—Betty 
comes close—looks down at it—she compresses her lips—looks up at Countess 
—Countess starts as she speaks—Betty looks at ring—admires it—then asks 
question—Countess a little taken aback—then answers: 


Spoken Title: “This ring? Oh, it—ah—was the gift of a 

very deah friend, my love!” 

Countess watching shrewdly—sees Betty is jealous—she is suddenly en¬ 
lightened—smiles as Betty looks at ring, then off somewhat disturbed— 
Countess smiles again—shrewdly—starts to talk to Betty—when others 
come in and say it is time for the bathing now—point off at sea—Countess 
looks. 


Scene 136. 

Ext. Waterside 

Several bathers in water—Vandergrift comes gingerly in—wades out— 
rollicking youngsters splash him—much to his dismay. 






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How to Be a Successful Writer 


75. 


Scene 137. 

Ext. Beach—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) (Shoot toward bath houses in background) 
Countess is urged by Betty and bathers, among whom is Cavendish, now, to 
enter water—she laughs—draws back—looks down at self—touches her 
becoming coiffeur—shakes head—she is perfectly dry of course—says: 
Spoken Title: “Oh, deah, no! I might get chilled! I’ve 

been in long enough!” 

All astonished—say, “Why, you haven’t been in at all”—she looks at them 
a moment, smiling—then suddenly laughs, whirls and runs away for bath¬ 
houses in background—HOLD as she runs—others laugh and turn toward 
sea. 


Scene 138. 

Int. Bathhouse 

Countess comes in—shuts and locks door—pauses—thinks swiftly—looks at 
her hanging clothes, shakes head—looks down at self—then up at window— 
decides on action—jumps to window and starts out, head first. 


Scene 139. 

Ext. Side of Bath House 

Countess in bathing suit comes out head first—turns over—drops close to 
shrubbery—jumps up to look hastily round—then starts cautiously off 
toward house. 

Scene 140. 

Ext. Beach 
Bathers in surf. 

Scene 141. 

Ext. Tool House 

Lawn-Mower, etc. by open door—Countess from shrubbery—looks cautiously 
about—sees tool-house door open—runs to it—peers in—suddenly laughs— 
steps in. 

Scene 142. 

Int. Mrs. Vandergrift’s Bedroom 

Mrs. Vandergrift in and to dresser—lays her mesh-bag on dresser—prinks 
a little—then pauses—looks off—she is somewhat disgusted as she thinks 
of how the Countess monopolizes the men, etc.—then begins to powder her 
nose, etc. 

Scene 143. 

Ext. Tool House 

Countess to doorway—just scrambling into overalls she has found—puts on 
jumper and slouch hat—laughs—starts away. 

Scene 144. 

Ext. Shrubbery 

Boyle wandering grimly through—stops—looks off as if toward beach—grins 
—then goes on. 

Scene 145. 

Ext. Shrubbery 

Countess (in overalls and hat) in—looks off—sees Boyle in background- 
ducks down out of sight—looks off and up—suddenly starts and grins. 

Scene 146. 

Ext. House 

A second floor window, Mrs. Vandergrift is examining self in hand mirror. 

Scene 147. 

Ext. Shrubbery 

Countess in overalls grins exultantly—rises—peers about—then sees some¬ 
thing else interesting—goes off. 

Scene 148. 

Int. Mrs. Vandergrift’s Bedroom 

Mrs. Vandergrift finishes prinking with hand mirror—lays it on dresser- 
picks up bag—then lays it down again—goes out. 

Scene 149. 

Ext. Near Fruit Tree—(Ladder against tree) 

Countess in overalls comes in—sees ladder and basket beside it—thinks— 
looks off—starts to take ladder down—just then Boyle comes in from back- 




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171 


ground behind her—sees her he comes forward as she gets ladder down— 
asks question—Countess starts. 

Scene 150. 

Ext. Near Fruit Tree—(CLOSE-UP) 

Of Countess in overalls—startled—stands still—thinks—then coughs behind 
her hand—coolly pulls hat down over her face a bit—turns. 

Scene 151. 

Ext. Near Fruit Tree—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Boyle inquiring about fruit—pays little attention to Countess, as she glances 
at him—she replies that she is picking fruit for the house, etc.—bends again 
busily to ladder—Boyle glances at her—then shrugs—goes—she works a 
moment—then pauses—looks after him—laughs—starts quickly to carry 
ladder off. 

tfcene 152. 

Ext. House 

Mrs. Vandergrift out—starts away—after moment, Countess (overalls) pops 
up from behind bush—peers off—then begins to drag out ladder. 

Ext. Beach 

Scene 153. 

Bathers coming out of water—have had enough—Betty and Cavendish to¬ 
gether—he urges one more plunge—she shakes head—races for bath house— 
he shrugs—follows. 

Scene 154. 

Ext. House 

Ladder up—Countess (overalls) just climbing—she looks around—then hur¬ 
riedly scrambles up—as she does so, a rip in side of trousers shows a bare 
limb. 

Scene 155. 

Int. Mrs. Vandergrift's Bedroom 

Countess (overalls) suddenly appears outside open window—looks back— 
scrambles in—looks hastily about—sees dresser—runs to it. 

Scene 156. 

Int. Mrs. Vandergrift’s Bedroom—(CLOSE-UP) (Dresser) 

Countess (overalls) looks at dresser—sees bag—grabs it—opens it—finds 
telegram—opens that—reads: 

76. Insert: FLASH of telegram and translation as in 

Insert 73. 

Countess laughs—thinks cunningly—then thrusts telegram back in bag— 
looks about—sees jewel-case—grabs and opens it—finds necklace—lifts it 
up with slow exultation. 

Scene 157. 

Ext. Near Fruit Tree 

Boyle comes slowly back—tramps with hands behind him—bored—comes to 
deserted basket of fruit—stops—stares at it—then looks up tree and around 
for gardener—as he does not see him, he grows curious—begins to walk 
away—looking for him. 

Scene 158. 

Int. Mrs. Vandergrift’s Bedroom 

Countess (overalls) finishes examining necklace—suddenly she starts to 
pull up leg of trousers—finds rip—through it crams necklace into her bathing 
stocking—then whirls toward window. 

Scene 159. 

Ext. Bath Houses 

Betty, Cavendish and other bathers out—talk—then start to stroll toward 
house. 

Scene 160. 

Ext. Garden 

Boyle peering about—suddenly sights something off—amazed—Starts for¬ 
ward—shouting. 

Scene 161. 

Ext. House 

Countess (overalls) just descending ladder—starts at shout—looks around 
—nearly falls off ladder—then slides down to ground—whirls to run away— 


172 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Boyle rushes in—looks up at window—then shouts again—servant runs out— 
Boyle shouts warning of robbery at her—whirls to pursue Countess—servant 
runs off—screaming alarm. 

Scene 162. 

Ext. Tool House 

Countess (overalls) runs in in panic—hestitates—gets idea—runs on. 

Scene 163. 


Ext. Lawn 

Mrs. Van talking with non-bathing guests—servant runs in with alarm— 
great excitement—Mrs. Van runs toward house. 

Scene 164. 


77. 


Ext. Tool House 

Boyle up—looks in—then look around—rushes off, on Countess’ trail. 

Scene 165. 

Ext. Side of bath house 

Countess in overalls rushes from bushes—leaps to window—then goes in 
head first. 

Scene 166. 

Ext. Lawn 

Guests in huge excitement—bathers come up to get news—Mrs. Van comes 
rushing out with mesh-bag and jewel case. She tells them her necklace is 
missing—Vandergrift comes panting up—she whirls tells him. 

Scene 167. 

Int. Bath House 

Countess stripping off overalls—wads them up with hat—throws them out 
window. 

Scene 168. 

Ext. Side of bath house 

Boyle just rushing past—overalls come flying from window—hit him in head— 
he stops—grabs clothes—looks at them—recognizes them—stares—then calls 
out—looks up. 

Scene 169. 

Int. Bath House 

Countess hears Boyle’s cry—is scared—then adopts bold measures—steps to 
window. 

Scene 170. 

Ext. Side of bath house 

Boyle staring up—Countess looks out—sees him—hesitates an instant— 
then adopts indignant air—demands: 

Spoken Title: “Who threw those horrid overalls in heah?’’ 

Boyle amazed—then nonplussed—stares from overalls to Countess—then 
tells her of robbery. 

Scene 171. 

Int. Bath House—(CLOSE-UP) 

Countess, as seen through window from outside, feigns consternation at 
news—she gestures that the thief must have run on toward the sea. 

Scene 172. 



Ext. Side of bath house 

Other men hurry in and join detective—who explains briefly—Countess 
waves at them, urging them to hurry on toward sea and catch thief—they go. 

Scene 173. 

Int. Bath House 

Countess sinks back panting—then laughs—pulls necklace from stocking 
and looks at it—(IRIS OUT) 

78. Subtitle: Half an hour later—suspicion! 

Scene 174. 

Ext. “Billowcrest” porch 

Guests gathered, listening to Boyle and others as they speculate about rob¬ 
bery with the Vandergrifts—the Countess comes coolly in, dressed exquisitely 
again—she expresses the utmost sympathy with Mrs. Van, etc.—the men 
all crowd about her and she tells her story. 

Scene 175. 

Ext. “Billowcrest” porch—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 




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173 


Betty listening doubtfully to Countess in background as she talks, glib and 
suave—Boyle stands near Betty, grinning admiringly at Countess—Betty 
looks at him, then touches his arm—he turns to her a little impatiently— 
she hesitates—then smiles very sweetly on him—he takes notice quickly 
and bends to listen—she says: 

79. Spoken Title: “Doesn’t this seem a little—er—queer? The 

Countess—it all seems so—fortuitous!” 
Boyle opens his eyes in amazement—he looks off at Countess—starts to 
make indignant protest—stops, stares at Betty—then hesitates—Betty looks 
at him, then at Countess—she herself did not quite mean to cast suspicion 
on the Countess, but she gets the idea from his manner—she looks Boyle 
in the eyes searchingly as the idea grows in her mind. 

Scene 176. 

Ext. “Billowcrest” porch—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess as she turns from conversation with the Vans and looks off—sees 
Cavendish looking amusedly at her from background—she hesitates, then 
smiles and goes straight toward him—Van in foreground turns to his wife 
with sudden recollection of his telegram—asks question—she opens bag and 
gives him the wire—he sighs with relief and pockets it. 

Scene 177. 

Ext. “Billowcrest” porch—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess approaching Cavendish, smiling—says a casual word—glances 
warily back—then, covering her communication with playful manner, says 
quickly: 

80. Spoken Title: “Wire our brokers to sell U. S. Biscuit short. 

It will pass its dividend!” 

She makes a merry added remark and turns easily toward Betty and Boyle. 

Scene 178. 

Ext. “Billowcrest” porch—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Betty and Boyle assume casual manner as Countess come up—Countess 
takes Betty’s arm and holds it—to Boyle she smiles effusively and says: 

81. Spoken Title: “Let me compliment you, detective, on youah 

powers of deduction and presence of mind— 
in so closely tracing ouah thief!” 

Boyle can’t resist her charm and ffattery—he smiles with pleasure and 
thanks her—she smiles significantly and turns away—Betty looks after her 
doubtingly—then, as Boyle turns and tells her “That woman cannot be any¬ 
thing but honest!”—Betty uses her own smile on him and says, “I’m sure 
YOU won’t make any mistake,” Boyle swells up, “Of course not!” etc. Then, 
as Betty leaves him, he looks back after Countess and rubs his chin doubt¬ 
fully. (IRIS OUT.) 

82. Subtitle: A Week Later, 

The “Countess” plans to Entertain. 

Scene 179. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing room (IRIS IN) 

Julian in man’s clothes, looking about—he pauses before statue, grins at it— 
then turns away and picks up phone—he adopts Countess’ manner and gives 
number—waits, takes out cigar and puts it in mouth—then speaks to phone, 
with Countess’ air—waits: 

Scene 180. 

Int. Lovering’s Hallway 

Maid at phone, calls off to Betty—Betty comes quickly and answers phone. 

Scene 181. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room (CLOSE-UP) 

Julian at phone—smiles quickly, then carefully adopts Countess’ manner 
and says: 

83. Spoken Title: “Oh, my deah! I am planning a lawn fete at 

the Country Club. Will you come oveh—at 
youah convenience, and—ah—help me?” 
Julian talks on, with elaborate manner of Countess. 

Scene 182. 

Int. Lovering’s Hallway (CLOSE-UP) 

Betty at phone—she considers, hesitates, at last assents—she hangs up, 


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How to Be a Successful Writer 


thinks, purses lips, then suddenly makes up her mind to go at once—she 
catches hat from stand nearby and starts out. 

Scene 183. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room 

Julian has hung up—stands looking at phone and smiling to himself in 
fondness of Betty—then he smokes and looks at watch—then strolls out. 

Scene 184. 

Ext. Before Countess’ gate 

Betty comes hurrying up and turns in—as she does so, she stops suddenly, 
looking up: 

Scene 185. 

Ext. Countess’s House 

Julian inside window, smoking idly and looking out—he does not see her. 

Scene 186. 

Ext. Countess’ gate 

Betty gasps—then suddenly feigns not to see Julian—she hesitates an in¬ 
stant, then proceeds toward house. 

Scene 187. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir 

Julian at window, looking out, suddenly sights Betty and starts back—he 
looks hastily at watch—then peers cautiously out—then suddenly whirls 
and calls Soto off scene—he grabs at gown on chair, discards it—seizes 
negligee—Soto in—Julian gives him hurried instructions—Soto goes—Julian 
scrambles to dress in negligee. 

Scene 188. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room 

Jap butler just showing Betty in—Betty asks for Countess and indicates 
that she just phoned for her—Jap bows and goes—Betty, perturbed, walks 
the floor. 

Scene 189. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir 

“Countess” just completing hasty dressing, is in wig and negligee—Jap 
butler comes—Countess hurries out. 

Scene 190. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room 

Betty, walking floor—suddenly sees statue—stops short and stares—then 
she shows shocked dislike and contempt for it—just then Countess comes in 
and sees her—grasps her dislike for statue and comes forward—Betty sees 
her and turns, a little abashed—Countess all smiles, says: “You do not like 
my statue?” Betty hesitates—then shakes her head and says: 

84. Spoken Title: “Countess! No American lady could have 

such a — thing in her drawing room!” 

Countess upset—shrugs, smiles, Betty shows repugnance for statue—as she 
looks at it, the Countess looks at her, and Julian’s manner shows through 
Countess’ veneer, as he is genuinely upset at her rebuke, etc., but Betty 
turns and looks at Countess—shows that other matters are on her mind—she 
says: 

85. Spoken Title: “I thought I saw—er—your friend Mr. Julian 

—er—coming in!” 

Countess starts—then covers it and turns, all surprise and smiles—she 
shakes her head—“Oh, no! He has not been here,” etc. Betty shows her 
disbelief despite herself—Countes^ laughs suddenly and pats her shoulder— 
she says: 

86. Spoken Title: “My deah! Do you mean to tell me you see 

visions of him—wheah he is not?” 

Betty hugely embarrassed and annoyed—but she covers it—as Countess 
turns away, however, to her desk, Betty looks darkly after her. 

Scene 191. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room—(CLOSE-UP) 

Countess comes to desk with pile of invitations on it—looks covertly back 
at Betty—covers a smile—then turns and beckons her—as Betty comes in, 
Countess shows invitations and begins to talk casually of her plans— 
(IRIS OUT) 

87. Subtitle: 


A Singular Dilemma. 


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175 


g cene 2^2 

Ext. Julian’s Home—(IRIS IN) 

Cavendish alighting from motor—starts toward house—sees Julian coming 
off scene—waits—Julian up as if just arrived home from walk—he is in a 
blue funk—greets—Cavendish sees something is wrong and inquires. 

Scene 193. 

Ext. Julian’s Home—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Julian and Cavendish—Julian says: 

88. Spoken Title: “I’m in a singular mess of trouble. The girl 

I love is insanely jealous of the Countess I 
impersonate!’’ 

Cavendish laughs with delight—he chaffs—Julian, utterly serious, swears— 
Cavendish laughs again—at last he says: 

89. Spoken Title: “There’s only one cure for such a situation! 

You’ll have to kill the Countess!” 

Julian stares—suddenly the idea strikes him as immense—he grabs Caven¬ 
dish and, talking eagerly, steers him toward house. (IRIS OUT) 

90. Subtitle: On the Night of the Lawn Fete. 

Scene 194 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—Night—(IRIS IN) 

Countess just completing toilette—she fusses extravagantly to have every 
effort KILLING—jewels, earrings, etc. 

Scene 195. 

Int. Countess’ Hallway—Night 

Jap butler just opening door to Betty—she is in evening gown and wrap and 
has called to go with Countess—she inquires for Countess—Jap indicates 
Countess is nearly ready and starts to show Betty into drawing room. Betty 
hesitates, thinks, then decides she will go up to Countess’ boudoir—tells Jap 
so and starts. He is startled, starts to interfere, then doesn’t dare, then, 
distressed trails along, dodging to and fro behind Betty, but not daring to 
pass her. 

Scene 196. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(Night) 

Shoot past Countess to show her resplendent reflection in mirror as she 
surveys her completed toilet—she smiles at herself—suddenly she starts 
and stares—in mirror appears reflection of Betty behind her. Countess 
whirls in sudden half panic—Betty comes in and pauses, marveling at beauty 
of Countess—Countess glances about to see what things may be in view that 
will betray her. 

Scene 197. 

Int. Countess’ Boidoir—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) (NIGHT) 

Countess, back to camera, smiles at Betty, who surveys her in wondering 
astonishment—in foreground is chair with suspenders on it. Countess turns 
as if to set out chair for Betty—sees suspenders—covers them from Betty 
with her own figure—grabs them and tosses them into waste-basket—sees 
a man’s shoe on the floor and kicks it surreptitiously. 

Scene 198. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(CLOSE-UP) (NIGHT) 

Man’s shoes on floor by dresser—Countess’ slippered foot kicks it under 
dresser. 

Sc6n6 199 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) (NIGHT) 

Countess all smiles as she gives Betty a chair—then she looks anxiously 
about for other betraying things—hurriedly she turns toward her bedroom, 
saying she will get her wrap and be ready—she goes. Betty does not sit— 
she surveys the room—then goes to dresser and looks in mirror. 

Scene 200. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(CLOSE-UP) (NIGHT) 

Betty at dresser, looks in mirror—she pretends to adjust a lavalliere of 
sapphires she wears—looks off—then down at dresser—suddenly she sees 
an open letter at one side—stares at it—then picks it up. 

91. Insert: Letter, which Mrs. Lovering wrote to Julian 

(insert 29) in which she asked him to cease 
his attentions to Betty. 


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How to Be a Successful Writer 


Betty stares—she is instantly confirmed in her suspicions that the Countess 
and Julian are intimates—she looks again at dresser—she sees a man’s 
watch and picks it up. 

Scene 201. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(CLOSE-UP) (NIGHT) 

Julian’s watch—she turns it over and initials or monogram S. J. appear on it— 
then DISSOLVE IN Julian looking at his watch in miniature on the watch 
itself—DISSOLVE OUT. 

Scene 202. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(CLOSE-UP) (NIGHT) 

Betty scared—convinced the Countess is a thief or something worse—thinks 
—then controls herself—lays down watch and letter and turns—after a 
moment the Countess hurries in in wrap ready to go—sees Betty standing 
apparently unobserving of anything and heaves a long sigh of relief—she 
says: “Come, my deah! I’m ready!” and leads Betty out. Betty follows, 
looking back an instant and compressing her lips with a resolve. 

Scene 203. 

Ext. Lovering’s Home—(NIGHT) 

Mrs. Lovering out to Motor in evening gown and wrap—and maid attends 
her. As she gets into motor messenger comes up with note—he speaks to 
maid—Maid turns quickly with letter to Mrs. Lovering and says: 

92. Spoken Title: “For Miss Betty, Madame.” 

Mrs. Lovering takes letter, glances at it, says she will take it to Betty and 
car starts as maid turns to sign messenger’s book—IRIS OUT. 

93. Subtitle: “And all the World, and his Wife, were 

there!” 

Scene 204. 

Ext. Club Lawn—Night—(IRIS IN) 

On brilliant throng under festooned lanterns. In background—crowds in 
porches—dancing inside. Countess, Mrs. Van, Mrs. Lovering and Betty 
receiving late guests. Betty is without her lavalliere now, but doesn’t notice 
its absence—as last guests pass in, Boyle comes from background and speaks 
to Countess—she greets him as if gratified to see him. Mrs. Van looks at him 
askance. 

Scene 205. 

Ext. Club Lawn—(Night) (SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Boyle, Countess and Betty—Boyle assures Countess he is taking every pre¬ 
caution to watch for thieves, etc. tonight—he says: 

94. Spoken Title: “There won’t be no thefts tonight, Dutch-ess! 

Or if they is, we’ll guard every exit and pinch 
the thief!” 

Countess says she is sure he will protect them all—smiles and turns to walk 
toward guests with Mr. Van and Mrs. Lovering—Betty lingers and then 
turns quickly to Boyle—she draws him aside. 

Scene 206. 

Ext. Club Lawn—(Night) (SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Betty and Boyle against dark background. Betty indicates Countess off 
and says: 

95. Spoken Title: “It’s terrible—but SHE’S the thief! I found 

Mr. Julian’s watch—and—and a letter at her 
house tonight!” 

Boyle amazed—then skeptical—but Betty is so sure and earnest that she 
begins to convince him—she says: 

96. Spoken Title: “Wherever she goes, there are thefts—and 

there were none before she came!” 

Boyle assents, wondering—then he sets his jaw—he promises he will watch 
the Countess. Betty hurries away. 

Scene 207. 

Ext. Club Porch 

Countess, Mrs. Lovering and Mrs. Van. Mrs. Lovering suddenly remembers 
the note she has for Betty. She takes it out and turns to look back for Betty 
Betty comes hurrying in—receives her note and opens it to read. Countess 
watches her. 


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177 


97. Insert: (NOTE) 

My dear Miss Lovering: 

I wonder if you are ready to report subscrip¬ 
tions from the Club for the Red Cross work. 
We are making up our reports and— 

Betty looks up in dismay. Countess inquires pleasantly what is the matter. 
Betty shows her the note. Countess smiles— 

98. Spoken Title: “Oh! Mr. Julian told me the Club’s contri¬ 

butions would be—ah—considerable!” 

Betty starts at mention of Julian and draws back a step. Countess smiles 
subtly—just then Mr. Van comes to claim dance with Countess and as she 
turns, smilingly, to him, he shows the foolishness of the senile old beau, 
flattered by young beauty. Betty and Mrs. Van, with differing expressions 
of disgust, watch them go. Cavendish hurries up and claims dance with 
Betty—she assents. 

Scene 208. 

Ext. Club Lawn—(Night) 

Boyle comes up to two plain clothes officers and tells them his new sus¬ 
picions—they are surprised—he tells them to watch carefully and sends one 
off in one direction and another in another. 

Scene 209. 

Int. Club dancing room—(Can use Lounge) (Night) 

Vandergrift and Countess dance to a stop in corner by conservatory entrance 
and almost at same moment Betty and Cavendish dance up and pause—all 
laugh—then Countess compliments Van on his dancing. He is foolishly 
pleased. Cavendish claims next dance with Countess and Van turns to Betty, 
who consents to dance with him. They walk away. Cavendish turns hastily 
to Countess and says: 

99. Spoken Title: “U. S. Biscuit passed its dividend to-day, and 

the stock tumbled. Your brokers cleaned up 
about ninety thousand for you!” 

Countess laughs—then as Cavendish gives her a list of her winnings, she 
tells him to let her slip into conservatory alone and look it over. He assents. 
She slips into conservatory. He turns easily away. 

Scene 210. 

Int. Dancing Room—(Night) 

Betty and Van walk in near orchestra—orchestra starts to play. Van wants 
her to dance. She is about to do so when she puts her hand up to her throat 
and misses her lavalliere—instantly she is startled—then frightened—looks 
all around—then tells Van she has lost her lavalliere. He starts and stares. 
Then says, “Thieves again!”—Betty shocked and frightened—Van looks 
around—one of Boyle’s officers in near exit in background. Van calls to him 
and gives alarm. 

Scene 211. 

Int. Dancing Room—(LONGER SHOT) (Night) 

Excitement about Betty and Van, as officer runs up—people stop dancing and 
crowd up. Betty half hysterical. Van gives hasty orders—officer runs off. 

Scene 212. 

Int. Conservatory—(Night) 

Countess looking over memo of her winnings (or change), grinning, suddenly 
she starts and listens—then parts foliage and looks off. 

Scene 213. 

Int. Conservatory—(Night) (SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Near door in side of conservatory, opening on garden—two officers stand— 
one has just rushed in from outside excitedly and is warning the other—he 
says: 

100. Spoken Title: “De dip’s busy agin! Boss says pinch dat 

Dutch-ess! She’s the light-fiingered one!” 
Officers plan quickly—one shuts door and sets his back against it—other 
starts toward camera. 

Scene 214. 

Int. Conservatory—(Night) (SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

(Dancing room in far background). Countess, in alarm, turns toward camera 


178 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


she does not know what to do—looks toward dancing room in background— 
hesitates. 


Scene 215. 

Int. Near Entrance to Conservatory—(Night) 

Dancing crowd pressing that way. Boyle and officers ahead. Guests point¬ 
ing and saying Countess went into conservatory. Some show eager curiosity, 
others show doubt—some are protesting and indignant. Betty, frightened, 
in care of Van. 


Scene 216. 

Int. Conservatory—(Night) 

Countess moving toward dancing room in background—stops suddenly— 
officers appear at entrance. Countess whirls and runs back. 

Scene 217 

Int. Nook in Conservatory—(Night) 

Countess in—officer against door in background. Countess stops—looks 
down at herself—fingers gown, etc.—thinks it will be fatal for her to be 
caught and searched—suddenly whirls—and then abruptly sees light-switch 
at hand—she steps to it—hesitates—listens—then laughs daringly—then 
snaps out lights. 

Scene 218. 

Int. Beside Conservatory Garden Door—(Night) 

Officer steps into patch of moonlight, looking toward dancing-room. Countess 
slips in behind him and swings on him, sending him crashing among the 
plants. Then she whirls to door—she can barely be seen as she fumbles at 
lock. 

Scene 219. 

Int. Conservatory—(Night) 

Officers under moonlit glass hear crash, etc. and point off toward door—rush 
that way. 

Scene 220. 

Int. Garden Door—(Night) 

Officer on floor in moonlight, tries to get up, holding his head. Countess 
fumbles helplessly at unfamiliar lock of door, but she can only be seen as 
dark figure. Other officers rush in—Countess shrinks into absolute darkness 
beside moonlit window—officers rush. 

Scene 221. 


Int. Garden Door—(Night) (SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Officers in moonlight. A hand comes out of darkness in a punch and an 
officer goes down—Two others rush into darkness. Next instant one comes 
staggering out, his hands up, and falls. Then the other comes headlong as 
if thrown from a hiplock—crowd turns in a panic. 

Scene 222. 

Int. Conservatory Entrance—(NIGHT) 

Crowd in a panic run toward dancing room. 

Scene 223. 

Ext. Conservatory Garden Door—(Night) 

Door opens suddenly and Countess bursts out—she is torn and disheveled 
but gloriously excited—she hesitates an instant, thinks, then gathers her 
skirts and runs off into darkness. 

Scene 224. 

Int. Dancing Room—(Night) 

Cavendish, near entrance, watches the excited crowd near conservatory—he 
grins a little—then, not wishing to be seen, he turns and goes out toward 
front. 

Scene 225. 

Ext. Club Drive—(Night) 

Jap chauffeur at Countess’ car—Countess runs up quickly—warns him to be 
quiet—she tells him quickly her plan—points off and around club, etc.— 
jumps into car and he leaps to wheel to start away. 

Scene 226. 

Int. Conservatory—(Night) 

Officers nursing injuries and talking excitedly as they look off toward 








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179 


garden door—one says: 

101. Spoken Title: “Be dad, dey wasn’t no Dutch-ess behind 

DAT punch!” 

Officers all agree that no woman ever put up the scrap which just defeated 
them—they begin gingerly to go forward, now drawing clubs and guns. 

Scene 227. 

Ext. Front of Club—(Night) 

Countess' car just stopping—she lies on cushions inside as if in faint—Jap 
chauffeur leaps down and starts to go into Club—Cavendish comes to steps 
at hand, looking off—Jap stops short, stares at him, then calls, Cavendish 
turns, then comes running. 

Scene 228. 

Ext. Front of Club—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Cavendish at car, opens door and stares at Countess—she opens an eye, sees 
him, looks guardedly off, then says quickly: 

102. Spoken Title: “Tell the detectives their ‘Dutch-ess’ has been 

robbed—and fatally hurt, here in the porch. 
You’re taking her home—to die!” 

Cavendish hardly gets it for an instant, then he grasps the idea and whirls— 
hesitating an instant, he runs into the Club—Countess directs chauffeur to 
work over her as if she is hurt, etc.—he begins and she settles back as if 
unconscious. 

Scene 229. 

Int. Dancing Hall—(Night) 

Cavendish in and to crowd—he shouts his news that Countess has been 
robbed—all turn and stare—some astonished, others curious, some satisfied 
that this supports their opinion that the Countess is innocent—Betty horri¬ 
fied—they press around Cavendish and he turns toward door. 

Scene 230. 

Ext. Front of Club—(Night) 

Chauffeur and maid come to car and work over apparently unconscious 
Countess—Cavendish and many of crowd, including Betty, come running 
out—Cavendish into car with maid—he warns crowd away—Betty in f. g. 
looks on in terror—chauffeur to wheel—drives away—Betty turns to camera, 
terrified—(IRIS OUT) 

Scene 231. 

Int. Dancing Room—(Night) 

Officers in, excited, inquiring—Boyle much chagrined and mystified—Mrs. 
Van comes to him and sneers at his failure—crowd presses about, indignant 
at charge he made against Countess. 

Scene 232. 

Ext. Front of Club—(Night) 

Mrs. Lovering and Betty come to take their car—Betty sick at heart—her 
mother kinder than usual—they enter their car. 

Scene 233. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room—(Night) 

Cavendish, chauffeur, maid and Soto come in, carrying the torn and dishev¬ 
eled Countess—come to foreground—suddenly Countess rouses miraculously 
and struggles to her feet in foreground—then she turns on Cavendish and 
gives swift instructions—points to ’phone—then she turns and looks around. 
She catches sight of pier-glass at hand, she looks at it, then at Soto—then 
she grins and says to Soto: 

103. Spoken Title: “Soto, you’ve helped me do many a strange 

thing—but tonight comes the supreme test of 
your loyalty. We must commit—murder!” 
Scene 234. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room— (NIGHT) (SEMI CLOSE-UP of Pier Glass) 
Countess’ reflection as she stands pointing to herself—Soto’s reflection beside 
her as he stares, then suddenly breaks into enlightened grin. Cavendish 
steps into reflected scene with ’phone in his hand and asks Countess a ques¬ 
tion. Countess turns with a laugh and gives him instructions—he begins to 
phone. 




180 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Scene 235. 

Int. Betty’s Bedroom 

Betty stands weeping before dresser—her mother tries to comfort her and 
is loosening her gown for her—suddenly Mrs. Lovering starts and stops—and 
then from bosom of Betty’s gown lifts out the lost lavallier and holds it up. 
Both stare—then Mrs. Lovering shows the lavallier clasp to be bent and 
broken. Betty suddenly collapses and falls sobbing into her mother’s arms. 

Scene 236. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir—(NIGHT) 

Countess in with Cavendish—servants busy about. Countess beckons Cav¬ 
endish to foreground and opens drawer—from it she takes papers and shows 
them to him—she says: 

104. Spoken Title: “I’ve been preparing for a sudden finish, my 

deah doctah. I’ve disposed of my—ah—loot, 
foh cash!” 

Cavendish takes papers in hand and stares at them. 

105. Insert: (Papers in Doctor’s hands. At end of a 

check shows at his side, but on top is a letter) 
Red Cross Society 
Brainerd Bldg., City, 

Gentlemen: 

Enclosed amount was collected by Miss 
Betty Lovering, and friends, from members 
of the North Shore Club. List of donors ap¬ 
pended so that you can publish it. 

Sincerely, 

Saunders Julian. 

(After time for reading elapses, Dr.’s hand 
moves list over face of letter and IRIS nar¬ 
rows down to show: 

Mr. & Mrs. Esmond Vandergrift.$50,000 

(Dr.’s hand moves to bottom of list and IRIS 
shows) 

Countess Raffelski .$10,000 

Countess laughs at Cavendish' astonishment—then shows one more letter. 


“And a copy of this will reach each of the 
generous contributors tomorrow morning, 
with their newspapers!” 

(Letter) 

My Dear Mrs. Vandergrift: 

Your lost necklace has been sold and the 
proceeds given to the Red Cross Society, as 
you will see by the morning papers. Unless 
you court undesirable publicity, no one will 
ever know that you are not as generous as 
you appear. 

Yours truly, 

Marka, Countess Raffelski. 
Cavendish turns from letter, stares at Countess, then roars with laughter 
Countess grabs him and covers his mouth with her hand—she looks around 
with mock apprehension and says: 

108. Spoken Title: “My deah doctah! Don’t you realize that I 

am dying?” 

Both laugh—then Countess turns to Soto and gives papers to him, telling him 
to see to their immediate delivery, etc.—then she begins to tell further plans 
to Cavendish—(IRIS OUT). 

109. Subtitle: A Breakfast Appetizer 

Scene 237. 

Ext. Corner of Terrace—(IRIS IN) 

On Mrs. Vandergrift at breakfast, against background of vines. 

She is staring at the paper already spread in her hands—she reads: 


She says: 

106. Spoken Title: 

107. Insert: 







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181 


110. Insert: (Double Column Headlines) 

Countess Raffelski Dying 
Shock of brutal robbery at Club causes heart 
failure, physician says: 

After a moment PAN (or shift paper) to show 
headlines in another column: 

Big Gifts to Red Cross 


Country Club members make extraordinary 
contributions to worthy cause. 


(Item headed by list of contributions in bold 
face) 

Mr. & Mrs. Esmond Vandergrift, $50,000 (etc.) 
Mrs. Vandergrift stares at paper—then picks up open letter and stares at 
that. She grimaces, as she recognizes her predicament. She starts to rise— 
stops, looks at letter again—then crushes it in her hand and sits staring at 
paper. (IRIS OUT) 

Scene 238. 

Int. Countess’ Hallway—(IRIS IN) 

On Cavendish facing tearful Betty, who has just arrived and is begging to be 
allowed to go up and see Countess—as they talk. Soto at door listens—Dr. 
tells Betty that Countess is dying, etc. Soto hears ring and opens door. 
Boyle presses in—sees Cavendish and Betty and comes at once to them. 

He pulls from his pocket a torn bit of finery and buttons and says roughly: 

111. Spoken Title: “Found in the Club conservatory—part o’ de 

Dtchess’s glad rags!” 

Betty and Cavendish stare—Boyle wants to know what about it. Cavendish 
turns on him and orders him to be quiet—points upstairs and tells him Count¬ 
ess is dying. Boyle hushes abruptly, he looks at Dr.-then at Betty. She 

opens her hand and holds up her lavalier, sobbing and telling him of her 
sad mistake. Boyle abashed, stares from lavalier to the bit of finery he 
holds. Betty again begs Cavendish to let her see the Countess. Cavendish 
hesitates—at last he assents and sends Soto to lead the way. Betty follows— 
Cavendish draws Boyle toward drawing room. 

Scene 239. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom 

In her wonderful bed, Countess, magnificently gotten up in lace gown, etc., 
grinningly reads the paper—Jap maid comes running and warns her. Count¬ 
ess in panic, shrinks under covers. Maid whisks away paper—and then 
Betty comes timidly in, led by Soto, who sighs with relief as he sees Countess 
simulating extreme illness. Betty to bed. 

Scene 240. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom—(CLOSE-UP) 

Countess on pillow—simulating desperate illness. Betty sinks beside her— 
Countess turns her head. Betty sobs and shows lavalier, in weeping con¬ 
fession of her mistake—then she drops her head on Countess’ breast. Count¬ 
ess’ eyes open wide over her head and she grins with huge relish of this— 
but she carefully moves her hand and puts it on Betty’s head. Betty sobs 
and talks—Countess listens. 

Scene 241. 

Int. Countess’ Hallway 

Cavendish arguing with Boyle, who looks again at torn finery in his hand and 
is again suspicious. He wants to investigate the Countess. He insists upon 
going upstairs. Cavendish argues—but detective insists and starts. Caven¬ 
dish desperate, goes with him. 

Scene 242. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom 

Countess feigns to speak with difficulty at last—stops Betty’s confession and, 
begging for forgiveness, she says: 

112. Spoken Title: “There’s nothing to foahgive, my deah. Now 

let me—straighten this—tangle about Mr. 
Julian—while I have time!” 

Betty starts and gasps—Countess quiets her with weak gesture—then says: 








182 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


113. 


114. 


115. 


116. 


117. 


Spoken Title: “Julian saved my life—in Belgium—where we 

were together on—secret service foah the 
American government. The rings were— 
duplicate momentos!” 

Countess pauses and pants—then as Betty’s head sinks a little abashed, 
Countess grins an instant and goes on: 

Spoken Title: Foahgive a dying woman foah—intruding on 

youah affairs. But Saunders Julian—loves 
you—and you only!’’ 

Betty’s head goes down again on the Countess’ breast—Countess looks at 
her with tenderness, then off, with a half desperate shake of the head, as if 
“she” cannot stand this much longer—suddenly she starts and looks off. 

Scene 243. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom (SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Boyle and Dr. come into bedroom door and stop—Boyle looks at Countess, 
half skeptical and suspicious, but he hesitates. Cavendish crowds past him, 
feigning much concern, and goes toward bed. Boyle slowly follows: 

Scene 244. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Countess in bed—Betty has turned to look as Cavendish comes in and bends 
over Countess—Betty draws up and away a step—Boyle comes in, half awed 
but still doubtful. Cavendish close over Countess. 

Scene 245. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom—(CLOSE-UP) 

Cavendish over Countess, shielding her from others—she looks up at him 
desperately, then grins daringly and whispers: 

Spoken Title: “Here’s where I croak, Doc!” 

Countess shuts her eyes, gasps and turns on pillow—Cavendish watches, al¬ 
most losing his nerve for an instant—the looking off—Countess suddenly 
relaxes. 

Scene 246. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Cavendish turns slowly to Betty and Boyle—he shakes his head—looks back 
at Countess, then turns and says: “It’s all over—she’s gone!” Begins to 
urge them gently from the room. 

Scene 247. 

Int. Mrs. Vandergrift’s Morning Room 
Mrs. Vandergrift at phone calling number. 

Scene 248. 

Int. Countess' Boudoir 

Jap maid answering phone. Cavendish, Betty and Boyle come from bedroom 
and Cavendish shuts door. Maid turns and calls Dr. to phone. Cavendish 
tells her to go to her dead mistress. Maid shows shock, then hurries to bed¬ 
room as Dr. takes phone. He listens, then gravely shakes his head and looks 
back toward bedroom as he says: “The Countess is dead!” 

Scene 249. 

Int. Mrs. Vandergrift’s Morning Room 

Mrs. Van at phone shows shock. Asks question—exclaims with regret. Then 
suddenly she says: 

Spoken Title: “Then, in decency’s name, doctor, call off 

that detective! My necklace is—er—ac¬ 
counted for!” 

Mrs. Van phones and waits. 

Scene 250. 

Int. Countess’ Boudoir 

Cavendish turns with phone and hands it to Boyle—says Mrs. Van wants 
to talk to him, etc. Boyle, wonderingly, takes it—(IRIS OUT). 

Subtitle: The End of a Career of “Usefulness!” 

Scene 251. 

Int. Countess’ Bedroom (IRIS IN) 

Julian on, in man’s dress, with Cavendish, as Soto and other Japs are just 
depositing big pine box (somewhat like sort coffins are shipped in) on the 
floor. Statue in background. Soto pulls cover off box—it is half full of 


Model Photoplay 


183 


excelsior—all regard it with interest. Julian jokingly suggests that it is for 
HIM—then they debate what to put into it. Suddenly Julian laughs and 
points to statue—he goes toward it. 

Scene 252. 

Int. Countess’ Hallway 

Jap butler just admitting Betty, with flowers. She explains that she comes 
with modest offering for casket, etc. Jap much worried, asks her to wait, 
and edges toward drawing room. 

Scene 253. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room 

Julian and others just dropping statue into box—it goes in, all but an arm. 
All laugh. Cavendish says it can’t go. Julian says it must—he catches up a 
chair and breaks off the arm—chucking it into the box after the rest. Soto 
and other Jap start to put on cover. Jap butler comes in fearfully and to 
Julian. 

Scene 254. 

Int. Hallway 

Betty hears sound in drawing room with astonishment—after an instant, with 
strange expression she goes that way. 

Scene 255. 

Int. Drawing Room 

Japs have just put cover on box. Julian and Cavendish listen in dismay as 
butler tells them of Betty’s presence in hallway and then Betty comes in. All 
stare. Julian presses forward anxiously. 

Scene 256. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room (SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Betty stares at Julian—he stretches out a hand anxiously, but she turns from 
him and looks toward box in background. Then she ignores Julian and goes 
toward box with her flowers. Julian turns instantly and waves frantically 
past her to Cavendish near box to do something. Then Julian thinks, sud¬ 
denly grins and whirls to and out door. 

Scene 257. 

Int. Drawing Room—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Beside the box, Cavendish greets Betty gravely. She speaks of putting the 
flowers on casket, etc. She looks down. Cavendish in great distress—looks 
off—fidgets—then quiets and tries to demur as Betty looks up. 

Scene 258. 

Int. Drawing Room—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) 

Japs, as they stare and anticipate catastrophe. 

Scene 259. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room 

Betty looks up at Cavendish in wonder at his refusing her simple request. 
Suddenly she turns and commands him to open the box. He hesitates, looks 
at Cavendish. Cavendish is helpless—turns out his hands hopelessly. Soto 
lifts the cover. Betty bends, then suddenly starts and stares. 

Scene 260. 

Int. Countess” Drawing Room—(CLOSE-UP) 

Face of statue with broken nose, in excelsior filled box. 

Scene 261. 

Int. Countess’ Drawing Room 

Betty amazed, rises erect and stares around. Then she turns on Cavendish 
and demands an explanation—but just then from door behind Betty comes 
Julian in Countess’ wig and negligee—and Cavendish sees him, and, waving 
Betty to him, turns and beats it. 

Scene 262. 

Int. Drawing Room—(SEMI CLOSE-UP) Countess 

Betty turns and sees Countess—stares—then half scared, as if she sees a 
ghost—Countess steps forward till only the box separates the two—then 
cooly lifts off wig and throws off kimona and stands forth as Julian—Petty 
gasps and drops flowers—then she demands of Julian: 

118. Spoken Title: “Why did you do this?” 

Julian hesitates—then grins—answers: 


184 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


119. Spoken Title: “To make good your promise to the Red Cross 

and—to hand one honest wallop to the Vans!” 
Betty stares—then looks down at box—then up at him again—then at box— 
Julian looks at the box and then at the wig in his hand—he suddenly slams 
the wig into the box in supreme disgust and steps in upon it, treading it 
down on statue’s face—then he says: 

120. Spoken Title: “You CAN’T be jealous. I’m forever—IN 

DUTCH with the “DUTCH-ESS!” 

Betty looks up—she is smiling irrepressibly—Julian suddenly steps across to 
her, taking her hands eagerly. (IRIS OUT). 


—FINIS— 



PART IV 

GLOSSARY OF WORDS AND 
PHRASES USED IN 
PHOTOPLAY WRITING 








Chapter I 


THE GLOSSARY 


It is important to note that the following terms are defined in relation 
to the photoplay, not according to their accepted meaning; therefore, 
in many instances, the definitions differ from the common usage of the 
terms. The meaning given is that prevalent in studios. 

* * * * 

ACTION—The doings of the various characters, by which the plot is 
unfolded and the story told. 

ADAPTATION—A photoplay taken from published fact or fiction. 
ANGLE-SHOT—A view of a scene taken from a different angle. 

ART DIRECTOR—A studio member who sees that art objects in a 
“set” are correctly handled. 

ATMOSPHERE—Differently interpreted; usually meaning the local 
color surrounding a scene or play. 

AUXILIARY CHARACTER—A minor character. 

BUNCH LIGHTS—Clusters of incandescents used in photographing 
scenes. 

BUSINESS—Author’s instructions for a certain piece of acting. 

BUST—Obsolete for close-up. 

“CAMERA”—Just before the photographing of a scene begins, the 
Director calls “Camera,” and the cameraman immediately gets every¬ 
thing ready for the beginning of the scene action, which opens when 
the director says “Shoot.” 

CAMERA EYE—Power of vizualization. 

CAPTION—Obsolete for sub-title. 

CAST—Abbreviation of Cast of Characters. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS—List of characters appearing in a play. 
CHARACTER—One of the fictitious persons in a photoplay. 
CINEMATOGRAPHER—The cameraman, who operates the motion 
picture camera. 

CLIMAX—The highest point of interest and suspense, from which all 
action demands; the untying of the “major knot”; the supreme crisis 
of a play. 

CLOSE-UP—Scene photographed with the camera close to the action. 
CONFLICT—Antagonism of characters; conflict is the indispensible 
element of plot. 

CONTINUITY—The succession of scenes, sub-titles and inserts, ex¬ 
actly as they are to be directed, acted and photographed. 

CONTINUOUS ACTION—A scene in a single location acted by one set 
of characters; or action followed without interruption in a series of 
locations. 

COOPER-HEWITTS—The mercury-vapor lamps used overhead in stu¬ 
dios for interior scenes or night work. They give off a ghastly blue 
light making the face look swollen and purple in places. 

CRANK—Meaning to photograph. See “Camera.” 

CRANKING—Photographing. 

CRANK-SPEED—Speed at which the picture is to be photographed. 
CRISIS—A critical moment in the development of a plot; a minor 
climax. 

CUT-BACK—To return to a previous scene after introducing other 
scenes. 

CUT SCENE—A scene shortened after being viewed in the projection 
room. Also instruction to stop camera. 

DENOUEMENT—That portion of a plot following the major climax; 
the ending; the Explication. 



188 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


DESCRIPTIVE TITLE—A sub-title explaining anything not shown in 
the plot. 

DIRECTOR—One who oversees the production of a photoplay. 
DIRECTOR OF LOCATION—One who finds suitable places throughout 
the country to be used as settings for plays. 

DISCOVER—Meaning a character is “on” when a scene begins. 
DISSOLVE—To blend one scene into another. 

DOUBLE EXPOSURE—A positive picture made from two overlapped 
negatives. 

DREAM PICTURE—An improbable play, finally explained by saying 
that it was all a dream. 

ENTER—Entrance into a scene. 

EPISODE—One section of a serial play. 

ESTABLISH—To make clear the relation of one character to the 
others; or to register, in a broad sense, as, “establish” innocence, 
anger or jealousy. 

EXHIBITOR—One who operates a motion picture theatre. 

EXIT, EXEUNT—Former, one character passing out of a scene; latter, 
two characters doing the same thing. 

EXPLANATORY TITLE—Sub-title clearing up a vague part of the plot. 
EXTERIOR—Out-of-door setting. 

EXTRAS—Actors or actresses engaged by the day to play minor parts. 
FACTION—A set of characters working together for a common purpose. 
FADE—Used in compound form: Fade-in and Fade-out; former, gradu¬ 
al appearance of a scene; latter, its gradual disappearance. 

FAKING—Making the impossible seem possible. 

FEATURE—An unusual subject generally; sometimes an ordinary sub¬ 
ject unusually handled. 

FILM—Three meanings: (1) A chemically sensitized piece of celluloid 
used in motion picture photography; (2) a photoplay; (3) to turn a 
scenario into a finished play. 

FILMING—Producing a photoplay. 

FLASH—Showing a scene or part of a scene on the screen for a moment. 
FRAME—(1) Each single picture in a photoplay; a series of scenes 
following each other quickly make the pictures seem to “move”; 
(2) part of the camera used to exhibit a photoplay. 

FREE-LANCE—A photoplay writer who submits his plays when and 
where he desires; not under contract with any one company. 
GESTURE—Registering by action; opposed to facial expression. 
INSERT—“Still” matter inserted in a play—not including a sub-title. 
Examples: letters, telegrams, newspapers, and the like. 

INTERIOR—Scene supposed to take place in-doors. 

INTERPOSE—Interrupt orderly procession of events. 
INTRODUCTORY TITLE—Sub-title introducing a character. 

IRIS—Diaphragm regulating the aperture of the camera lens. 

IRIS-IN: Opening the iris of a scene. IRIS-OUT: Closing the iris on a 
scene. 

LABORATORY—Department of studio, wherein films are made into 
plays for exhibition after being filmed. 

LEAD—Principal part in a play. 

LEADER—Obsolete for sub-title. 

LIGHTING—Tinting a play to produce various night or day effects. 
LOCATION—Place outside of a studio whereat a scene or number of 
scenes are photographed. 

LOCATION LIST—Itemized statement of locations to be used in a par¬ 
ticular play. 

LONG-SHOT—A full view of a scene. 

MAIN TITLE—Name of a play. 

MAT—A plate put over a lense when a scene is photographed to pro¬ 
duce the effect of looking through a key-hole, field glasses, and so on. 
MULTIPLE REEL—A photoplay of more than one reel. 

NEGATIVE—The exposed film run through the motion picture camera. 
The “positives” all are made from the one negative. 









The Glossary 


189 


OFF—The reverse of “On.” 

ON—When a character is “in the picture,” he is “on.” 

PAD—Inserting unnecessary matter in a play. 

PAN OR PANORAMA—Moving the camera from side to side or up and 
down while a scene is being photographed. 

PANTOMIME—Action by movement of the body or features to convey 
certain meanings. 

PHOTO-DRAMATIST—Another term for photoplaywright. 
PHOTOPLAY—A story told in pictured action. 

PICTURE STORY—A photoplay. 

PLOT—A complete idea elaborated into situations according to the 
rules of plot-building. In a broad sense, plot is the scheme, plan, argu¬ 
ment or action of a photoplay. 

PORTABLE LIGHTS—A rack of mercury lights which can be carried 
from one part of the studio to another. 

POSITIVE—A film printed from a negative; the finished photoplay as 
used by exhibitors. 

PRINCIPALS—The major actors or actresses in a photoplay. 
PRODUCER—One who causes a manuscript to be turned into a photo¬ 
play; usually the financial head of a company. 

PROJECTION MACHINE—Machine used by exhibitors to exhibit plays 
on the screen. 

PROPS—Abbreviation of properties; the objects used in preparing 
“sets.” 

PROPERTY LIST—Itemized list of properties. 

PUNCH—Action calculated to arouse strong emotions on the part of 
an audience. 

READER—One who assists the scenario editor in looking over sub¬ 
mitted manuscripts. 

REEL—(1) Metal spool on which film is wound for exhibition; (2) ap¬ 
proximately 1,000 feet of film. 

REGISTER—To portray emotions of anger, hatred, etc. 

RELEASE—A certain date on which a play is surrendered for ex¬ 
hibition. 

RELEASE TITLE—The main title finally selected for a photoplay. 
(See working title) 

RELIEF—Inconsequential action following a heavy dramatic scene. 
RETAKE—Photographing an unsatisfactory scene a second time. 
RETROSPECT—To revert to a former action. 

SCENARIO—An outline of a photoplay describing in every detail the 
development of the plot exactly as it appears on the screen and showing 
all sub-titles and inserts. 

SCENARIO EDITOR—Head of the scenario staff. 

SCENARIO STAFF—Writers and readers of photoplays under employ¬ 
ment of a film company. 

SCENE—That portion of a play’s action taken by the camera without 
stopping. A photoplay is made up of a series of scenes. 

SCENE-PLOT—Itemized list of various scenes classified as “interiors” 
and “exteriors” for the convenience of the director. 

SCREEN—The white surface on which films are exhibited. 

SCRIPT—Abbreviation of manuscript; a complete photoplay in type¬ 
written form. 

SEMI CLOSE-UP—A distant close-up or a close long-shot; “in between” 
a close-up and a long-shot. 

SERIAL—A photoplay presented in installments. 

SEQUENCE—A connected series of events. 

SET—Arrangement of furniture, background, and the like, for a scene. 
SHOOT—When the Director is ready for the Cameraman to begin 
photographing a scene, he exclaims “Shoot.” 

SILHOUETTE—Figure or figures outlined. 

SITUATION—A temporary state of affairs at any point in the plot. 
SLAPSTICK COMEDY—Comedy of a “rough” nature. 
SLOW-CRANKING—Usually, when a picture is photographed, sixteen 


190 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


frames are exposed to action per second. Often, however, only eight 
or twelve frames are photographed—called “cranking eight” or “twelve” 
—in order to make the action seem unusually fast when the picture is 
exhibited. This method is often used in comedies. 

SPECTACLE—A photoplay containing a majority of gorgeous scenes. 
“Intolerance” a fine example. 

SPLIT REEL—Approximately 1,000 feet of film containing more than 
one subject; split reels have gone out of vogue. 

SPOKEN TITLE—A sub-title consisting of a quotation by a character. 
STAR—A very well-known and popular player. 

STILL—A photograph of a scene or a character in a play made with 
an ordinary camera. “Stills” are used for advertising purposes. 
STORY—Plot. 

STRUGGLE—The contention resulting from opposition in the plot. 
STUDIO—The place where photoplays are made. 

STUNTS—Extraordinary or hazardous effects, tricks or actions. 
SUB-TITLE—A word, a phrase, or a sentence thrown on the screen 
during the action of a play. 

SUSPENSE—The doubtful state of mind of the audience as to the out¬ 
come of events. 

SWITCH-BACK—Same as cut-back. 

SYNOPSIS—An abstract or summary of the plot. 

TECHNIQUE—The skillful putting of an idea into proper form. 
TECHNICAL DIRECTOR—One who is supposed to see that inconsist¬ 
encies do not appear in the details of a set. A Technical Director would 
not allow electric lights to appear in a picture of ’76. 

TELESCOPIC LENS—Lens for long distance photography. 

THEME—That which a plot is about. 

THRILLS—Unique action, often spectacular, dangerous or unexpected. 
TIME ELAPSE—A sub-title, or a fade-out, or a combination of both, 
indicating the passage of time. 

TINTING—Passing daylight pictures through pale colors to give them 
special effects—night, fire, etc.—when shown on the screen. 
TRUCK-BACK—The act of moving the camera back from the scene 
while it is being photographed. 

TRUCK-UP—The reverse of Truck-Back. 

Vignette—A close-up of a face or article. 

VISION—The forming of mental actions not in the immediate scene. 
VISUALIZATION—Forming mental pictures of how a scene will appear 
on the screen. 

WIDE-ANGLE LENS—Specially wide-constructed lens for photograph¬ 
ing scenes at short range. 

WORKING SCRIPT—The manuscript used in a studio to produce a 
photoplay. 

WORKING TITLE—The title of a photoplay used in the studio while 
the picture is being filmed. The working title may or may not be used 
as the play’s final title. (See release title) 


ABBREVIATIONS 


Ex.—Exit 

Ent.—Enter 

c. u.—Close-up 

Bus.—Business 

Ms. or Script—Manuscript 

Pan.—Panorama 


Disc.—Discover 
m. g.—Middleground 
f. g.—Foreground 
b. g.—Background 
Int.—Interior 
Ext.—Exterior 


Props.—Properties 



PART V 

THE EASY WAY TO CHOOSE 
YOUR OWN FIELD OF 
WRITING AND WORK 
SUCCESSFULLY 







Chapter I 


INTRODUCTION 

Webster tells us that talent is either natural or acquired ability, 
and the same thought has been crystalized by a noted writer into the 
well-known maxim, “Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.” 
So, if you long to find expression for the ideas or information or plots 
crowding your brain, or if you feel that you have a message to give 
your fellow-man, there is absolutely no reason why you should not do 
it successfully, provided you set about the task systematically and 
intelligenty. 

In every locality there are remarkable characters who might well 
be written up, either for the inspiration or warning of others. There 
are historical spots, odd freaks of nature, great industrial plants, 
unique undertakings, about which others would be glad to know. Per¬ 
haps the people about you are peculiar to themselves, having retained 
their individuality in spite of the ebb and flow of the tide of events 
about them. 

It is out of just such material as this that Mary Wilkins Freeman 
created her New England types which have brought us so near to the 
heart of the life they portray; Irving Bacheller has given us the 
people of the North country as he sees them; men with an especially 
observing eye, like Frank Carpenter, have traveled far afield to tell 
us about the world and its people. Undoubtedly your particular neigh¬ 
borhood holds treasures of material which have never been unearthed 
and may long remain undiscovered, unless you or someone else with 
an active and resourceful mind will present them to the public in 
attractive and readable form. 

A young lady who lived in a city of some fifty thousand people, 
felt that she could write, provided she knew what to write about. It 
was true that she had considerable facility of expression and the fac¬ 
ulty of apt and graphic word portrayal. She needed money and 
sighed for the opportunity to travel in order that she might have 
something to write about. 

A strange young woman came to that town to spend a few months 
for her health. Before she had been there a week, she had closed a 
contract with one of the daily newspapers to write a “Know Your 
Own City” series. In this, the early history of the settlement was 
written up; its growth traced; its manufacturing plants described and 
featured; its schools, hospitals, churches, municipal heating plant, 
and social service work were all taken in turn; prominent people con¬ 
nected with each were given appreciative mention; other individuals 
whose lives were linked with the nation’s history were given recogni¬ 
tion. In fact, that series became the feature of an entire winter, and 
the material was later collected into a book, which enjoyed an excel¬ 
lent local sale. The young woman paid all her expenses and made a 
tidy sum besides. 




194 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


The first girl mentioned might have done the same, and, being a 
native of the place, could have done it with less effort than the stranger. 
It is a modern translation of the old story of the man who sold his 
little home and went forth to seek his fortune. He searched the world 
in vain, finally returning to discover that his successor had found a 
diamond mine beneath and around the very house where he had lived 
in such discontent. From this soil was taken the famous Kohinoor 
and others of the world’s most famous gems. 

What material is lying about you undiscovered ? Everywhere there 
is treasure, whether it be on the stretches of the desert, in silent moun¬ 
tain fastnesses, or the crowded city. You do not need to fare forth 
in search of adventure until you have exhausted what is near at hand. 

There are as many different lines of writing as there are individual 
human interests, so no one need be bound to any particular form 
of writing for which he is not fitted. It is repeatedly said that there 
is nothing new under the sun. In materials and fundamental facts, 
no; in management and presentation, yes. 

Do you remember the kaleidoscope of your childhood ? There were 
little pieces of brightly-hued glass at one end of the tube, and an eye¬ 
hole with a magnifying lens at the other. The little pieces of glass 
could be shaken into different patterns. The possibilities of arrange¬ 
ment were endless, although it was the same pieces of glass which 
each time produced the new pattern. 

Thus it is with facts. You and I can go on and on forever, re¬ 
arranging and delighting without ever duplicating, if we are willing 
to use the time necessary and to take the infinite pains essential for 
good work. A masterpiece may be dashed off in an hour, but work 
that will live is not usually produced in that way. As a wise man once 
remarked, “It takes only a few weeks to grow a squash but a hundred 
years to produce an oak tree.” 

Every worth while field of writing renders a valuable service, and 
every individual field of writing is capable of intensive cultivation. 
An ignorant farmer may make a poor living off several hundred acres, 
while the man who understands just how has been known to make a 
good livelihood off a piece no larger than a table top. 

There is a business maxim which the writer will do well to re¬ 
member, as it sums the financial part of the work up in a nutshell. 
“He who serves best profits most.” Good, better, best! Do not be 
satisfied with remaining stationary at the first or second landing. 
Whatever writing field you choose to work in, strive to become so 
skilled, so thoroughly acquainted with it as it is, and to have so clear 
a vision of what it ought to be that you can render expert service 
and thus be entitled to the honest commendation of the word—“Best,” 
by the Great Editor of the Universe. 

Do not be satisfied with “Good enough,” or “Well enough.” Re¬ 
member, “The good is enemy to the best.” Strive to be, even in small 
things, “A workman approved.” Then, and only then, will you merit 
the final acceptance, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” 



Chapter II 


THE WRITER, HIS METHODS, AND HIS EQUIPMENT 

While the writer should always aim toward doing the best work 
of which he is capable, this does not mean that he should despise the 
day of small beginnings. Better work to-morrow can only be ac¬ 
complished upon the foundation of good work, carefully finished 
to-day. 

It is not unusual to meet a beginner who says, “I do not care to 
consider the preparation of short articles or unimportant stories. My 
idea is to write something that will be worthy of the highest class 
literary periodicals of the day.” This is a worthy aim, but an unwise 
mental attitude likely to lead to disappointments and possibly to utter 
discouragement. It is as if the musical student without knowledge 
of notes or time should remark, “I do not wish to spend any time on 
unimportant details. I prefer to be a Paderewski at once.” 

The writer who would succeed must be physically fit. We are 
told of men and women who have succeeded in spite of great physical 
handicaps—Stevenson, Byron, Poe, and others. These individuals 
were exceptional, and what they might have accomplished, had the 
best of health been theirs, will never be known. The writer must 
eat sanely and temperately if the system is to function properly and 
the brain to be clear and alert. Indulgence in a single bad habit is 
likely to undermine success, for you cannot serve in the most efficient 
way, unless you are not only clear-brained, clear-eyed, but clean- 
souled as well. The public is becoming more and more discriminat¬ 
ing, and it demands that every message, no matter where given or how, 
shall ring true. 

As the writer’s work is sedentary, a regular amount of physical 
exercise is necessary. An hour spent in the open air may or may not be 
particularly beneficial, depending upon the mental attitude and bodily 
poise of the individual. A slouching gait, rounded shoulders, or pur¬ 
poseless meandering, will not amount to much mentally or physically. 
If, however, the writer will set aside a certain regular period every day 
for brisk, out-of-door exercises; will stand with the body in a perpen¬ 
dicular line from the ball of the foot to the hip and the point of the 
shoulder, being careful not to let the spine sag as he walks, breathing 
deeply as he goes, and rejoicing he is alive, he will gain much. 

Such exercise should not be wholly purposeless, for the mind must 
be pleasantly occupied. The writer should go forth to gain a fact, 
to execute an errand, to observe exactly how nature looks and acts 
under given circumstances, or for some definite purpose, if only to 
have a good time. He will then return to his desk refreshed and 
invigorated. v 

The work of the writer is of a nerve-trying nature as it calls for 
close concentration. The nerve cells of the body are best filled up 



196 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


and renewed by drinking plenty of water daily, by having an abund¬ 
ance of fresh air, and by an abstemious but nourishing diet. 

To do a good day’s work should be the aim of every writer. Some 
set themselves a certain daily task and do not stop until one, two, or 
three thousand words, as the case may be, have been completed; others 
work as the inspiration seizes them; still others sit down quietly for 
half an hour every morning, and carefully plan out the work of the 
next day, deciding what ought to be done and what must have first 
attention. The latter method usually brings excellent results; it pre¬ 
vents random work and the neglect of definite, timely effort. 

Regular hours of sleep are exceedingly necessary for the writer, 
and, while some may do better work at night or very early in the 
morning, yet these things are largely a matter of habit, and working 
hours should be arranged and co-ordinated with sleeping hours so as 
to keep the physical fitness of the worker always at par. 

It is a mistake for the writer to live constantly within confining 
walls, or to grind at his desk continually without seeking inspiration. 
To succeed he needs personal, four-square development. 

(1) The best quality of work cannot be done without physical 
well-being. 

(2) Real progress and mental development require that he may 
profit by contact with the great minds of all time through the printed 
page. 

(3) To write about life accurately, one must know life, and so 
the social side must not be neglected. 

(4) The writer, above all others, should be able to perceive and 
appreciate the unselfish, the altruistic, and the vision of human possi¬ 
bility and divine love. To neglect one’s spiritual development may 
condemn to utter superficiality. 

There are those who sigh, “No one knows how I long to write, but 
I fear I lack sufficient education.” 

Education is relative. By some it is gained in schools and universi¬ 
ties, by others in Life’s University of Experience. There are those 
who have had the advantage of rare academic opportunities, yet who 
lack the faculty of telling what they know to others. There are men 
and women writers of note who know no language but their mother 
tongue and a part of whose education has been gained through reading 
and study when the regular day’s work was done. 

Education is an advantage, of course, unless it makes one a slavish 
imitator of others—then it ceases to be education and becomes book¬ 
ishness. 

If you have a message for others, give it honestly, clearly, and with 
telling directness, being careful to verify your facts and to advance no 
weakening theory. Ideas are more important than the mere dress in 
which they are clothed. There are many more who can groom and 
polish than there are who can create. Education is not to be mini¬ 
mized, but a reasonable amount can be acquired by those who are suffi¬ 
ciently in earnest. Education must be of the perceptions and of the 
heart, however, as well as of the head. 

Everyone who essays to write should have some place devoted to 
the work; for, while it is possible to take notes anywhere, we become 





The Writer, His Methods and His Equipment 197 


more or less creatures of habit and do our best work in the spot which 
is so familiar that we become unconscious of our surroundings and 
readily absorbed in the work in hand. Most people can do better 
work in a place where interruptions are few; others have developed 
their power of concentration to a point where they can write in a city 
newspaper office with the click of typewriters and the clang of heavy 
presses in their ears. But there is no gainsaying the fact that writing 
and thinking against continuous noise is a much greater nervous strain 
than writing amid quiet surroundings. 

An elaborate equipment is not necessary. Every writer should have 
a roomy desk, the books and magazines devoted to the craft, some sort 
of a simple filing system, a typewriter, good light for night and day, 
and the means of good ventilation and temperature regulation suitable 
to the time of year. As far as possible, the writer’s surroundings 
should be such as to give him no concern or thought. Discomfort 
distracts the mind; reasonable comfort is an economy. 

A good typewriter of standard make, fresh, clear ribbons, good 
paper, and carefully prepared work are necessary that manuscripts 
may compete successfully in attractive appearance with others in the 
editorial office. A carelessly prepared manuscript, or one showing 
many corrections, is a poor business proposition. The salesman who 
would approach his customers with soiled linen and shoes run down 
at the heel, with unshaven face and untrimmed hair, might save in 
personal expense, but would limit his income decidedly. “There is an 
economy that tendeth to poverty.” It is better business to have a 
manuscript typewritten by someone capable of doing it well, than to 
send it forth indifferently prepared. 

No one should be discouraged, however, who cannot have every¬ 
thing at once. We must learn to do the best we can with what we 
have, always remembering that the main thing is to have original ideas 
to offer. To know what we want to do, to fix our eyes determinedly 
on the goal, and to work persistently toward that end, is sooner or later 
to accomplish our purpose. We can have what we want if we want 
it earnestly and persistently enough. 

In preparing manuscripts only one side of the paper should be used. 
The regular typewriter sheet, eight and one-half by eleven inches, is 
the most favored size. The name and address should be written in 
the upper left-hand corner of the first page, the number of words—if 
a story or article—noted in the upper right-hand corner, and the re¬ 
mark “Usual Rates” directly underneath this. About one-third way 
down, write the title, spacing it accurately in the middle of the page 
and using all capitals. If a nom de plume is used, it is written under 
the title and separated from it by the word “By.” Editors do not 
favor nom de plumes as they complicate the task of office bookkeeping. 
An author endeavoring to build up a reputation should send out work 
he will be willing to own, so that his prestige may be steadily cumu¬ 
lative. A nom de plume is the mark of the amateur. 



198 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Here is the correct way to begin your manuscript. 


John Henry Brown, 2,000 Words 

25 Allen Ave., Usual Rates 

Marytown, Texas 

COUNTER CURRENTS 
By 

George Ross England 

Further pages of the manuscript should be numbered in the center 
of the page at the top. To avoid loss of pages, or confusion in case 
they are separated, it is a good idea to write the title at the top of each 
succeeding page following the first. Thus, the title “Counter Cur¬ 
rents” will appear in the center of the first page and at the top of the 
other pages. 

Manuscripts are preferably folded twice to fit an envelope of legal 
size. They are never rolled and are clumsy if folded once. Two 
sizes of envelopes should be kept. The smaller size should take in the 
twice-folded, typewritten sheet easily and should bear the name and 
address of the sender, together with stamps enough to bring the manu¬ 
script back in case it is rejected. The outside envelope should be 
large enough to take in the return envelope and the manuscript and 
yet leave at least an inch to spare at the end. The envelope sizes 
known as No. 10 and No. 11 fill this description. The outer envelope 
is addressed as follows: 


John Henry Brown, 
No. 25 Allen Ave., 
Marytown, Texas. 


Editorial Department, 

Mountain and Valley Magazine, 
4 High Park, 

Surrey City, Okla. 


The manuscript should not be slipped into the return envelope, but 
the two placed side by side in the larger envelope. The outside en¬ 
velope should bear in the upper left-hand corner the address of the 
sender and be fully stamped for FIRST CLASS delivery. It is not 
necessary to send a letter to the editor, unless some special information 
relative to the manuscript is necessary. 

A small but accurate postal scale is a great convenience, for then 
the correct number of stamps may be enclosed for return. A manu- 







The Writer, His Methods and His Equipment 199 

script record is essential. This should be a three-by-five card in which 
is entered the facts of each offering. Devote one card to each manu¬ 
script, as follows: 


Name 

Class 

Length 

Where 

Submitted 

Date 

Sent 

Date 

Ret'd 

Postage 

Paid 

for 

Comments 

Counter- 

Currents 

Short 

Story 

2,000 

Words 

Mountain 
& Valley 

Jan.1,1918 


10c. 

Feb. 1 
1918 
$150 00 



When a manuscript is accepted and paid for, remove the card to a 
second box kept for that purpose. The date when accepted, and 
when paid for, together with the price, may also be given. Separate 
cards in both boxes by alphabetical index. 

Clippings are valuable, but they must be indexed or they are soon 
lost or forgotten. There are many systems for filing clippings—scrap 
books, subject envelopes, indexed clipping folders, and the like. Every 
writer will have to work his system out to suit his own particular 
needs. A system, however, there should be, and it is of little benefit 
unless it is kept up regularly. 

While the beginner is not advised to try all kinds of writing at 
once, it is well for him to realize that a single fact, like a jewel, may 
have several distinct facets or possibilities. A writer who found it 
necessary to prepare an article on olive growing and harvesting for a 
trade paper, came across information which could not be used to ad¬ 
vantage there. This material was utilized by writing another in¬ 
formative article for young people on olive culture and the curing 
processes used for green and ripe olives; another was done for a house¬ 
hold publication, on the medicinal uses of olive oil; and still another 
for a similar publication on olives and olive oil on the home table. 
Nor was this all, for facts still remained to be used at a convenient 
season, regarding the mechanical methods of extracting olive oil, the 
different commercial uses of the olive pits, distinguishing characteris¬ 
tics of the different grades of olives, Bible references to the olive in 
ancient times, etc., etc. 















200 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Not only is it wise to study the policy of different magazines and 
studios, but it is well to have a general knowledge of the different 
classes of markets, so that we may know at once where an experience, 
an anecdote, a write-up, a story, or a photoplay will likely find a wel¬ 
come. Many individuals pass quantities of good material daily simply 
because they do not realize there is a place for it. It is not to be ex¬ 
pected that any one writer will become acquainted with all of the field, 
or even a small part of it at once, but the acquaintance may be steadily 
broadened until the leading publications in a definite field at least are 
known. 

Do not ask an editor for criticisms, or reasons for rejection. Edi¬ 
tors are busy men. They are paid to perform the regular duties of 
their offices, and not to furnish a free course of instruction to those who 
choose to ask for it. If a kindly disposed executive happens to make a 
suggestion because he sees promise in your work, take it kindly, and, 
above all things, heed it! Such a suggestion has been offered in a 
wholly disinterested manner and for your good. Do not besiege such 
an editor with letters for further help, or he will rue the day he was 
tempted to give any advice at all. 

Even the reading of an extra letter may be the last straw in an 
overcrowded day. Be fair. If you want and need advice, pay some¬ 
one to furnish it. You would not ask the jeweler or the hardware 
man for any part of his stock free. Time and knowledge are two 
valuable commodities. Apply to someone who can advise and help 
you, who makes a business of it, and pay for the advise cheerfully, as 
you would pay your doctor or lawyer. If the literary helper can put 
his finger on the weak spot in your composition, and so make it worth 
a good price, also helping you to do stronger work in the future, you 
can figure for yourself whether the service paid for has been an ex¬ 
pense or an investment. 




Chapter III 


HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR OWN FIELD 
OF WRITING 


Note.—In the following list of subjects , the author has not treated 
of stories and photoplays. The demand for both is too great to be 
talked about. The purpose of the following is to direct the beginner s 
attention to the innumerable ways of utilizing ideas—in addition to 
story and photoplay writing—the many little by-paths of profitable 
authorship , generally unknown by the beginner. 


Agricultural Writing. —There is a surprising number of agricul¬ 
tural publications in the country, almost every state in the Union being 
represented by many of merit. These are ably editer and contain 
material of a practical nature written in a direct and convincing man¬ 
ner. Farm papers do not care for fine writing, but they do want facts 
plainly told, and helpful, inspirational articles. These papers are 
steady buyers and use a large amount of material. 

If you can raise poultry successfully; have discovered a particular 
rotation of crops which does not exhaust the land; have found some 
easy way of doing a necessary farm task; can offer an interesting 
experience in relation to stock raising; have discovered how to protect 
your fruit from the birds and market it to advantage; have learned 
how to secure the greatest number of pounds of butter from each 
cow; have successfully drained a swampy piece of land or irrigated an 
arid portion; have any experience to offer in grain raising, vegetable 
growing, or any other agricultural subject, write about it. 

If the experience or knowledge is not personal, but you have met 
someone who is possessed of such knowledge or experience, or you have 
observed the successful methods of others, collect the essential details. 
Tell your story clearly and interestingly, and, if the ideas are sound 
and have not been published, they will find a market. 

In addition to the subjects already outlined, general articles which 
have a point of contact with farm conditions will be welcomed, such as 
the relation of the rural church to local prosperity, road building, 
shade trees in the country, electrically lighting country homes, water 
works on the farm, sanitary out houses, unique Grange activities, 
sweetening sour soil, spraying fruit trees, removing stumps from newly 
cleared land, making use of old stone fences, tracing a typhoid epi¬ 
demic, modern maple sugar making, marketing exchange information, 
agricultural college extension work, and so on. 

Most of the agricultural papers have household departments. The 
material used is similar to that of the women’s publications, only it is 








202 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


developed from the standpoint of the woman on the farm. Practical 
labor saving ideas, child training, cookery, fancy work and sewing 
suggestions, entertainment plans for church, school and home affairs, 
and suitable fiction, will all find a ready place. 

Anecdotal Material .—Anecdotes relating to people prominent in the 
public eye—literary folk, politicians, society figures, artists, stars and 
educators—will find a ready sale, provided the anecdotes are authentic. 
Anecdotes relating to the success or failure of well-known businesses 
or people, anecdotes containing a suggestive point for others, can all 
be placed in an appropriate medium if original and striking. Humor¬ 
ous anecdotes are in especial demand. 

Animal Life .—Accounts of wild life, especially if accompanied by 
pictures, make interesting reading. We have a few well-known animal 
writers, but there is a vast fund from which to draw material—the life 
of the sea, of the air, of the fresh water streams, of the mountain, and 
of the earth. Many of our most interesting myths and legends spring 
from nature tales having to do with animal life. 

Children are always interested in well-told nature stories. The 
trap-door spider, the sea pansy, the sea cow, the habits of bees and 
ants, the doings of an interesting pet pony or goat, or even the every¬ 
day dog and cat, all give usable material. 

The show that this field is not over-crowded, it might be mentioned 
that a well-known New York editor recently wrote to the writer of 
this paragraph, asking that a certain little nature story concerning an 
ordinary robin, of which he had heard in a round-about way, might be 
traced out and written for his magazine. 

Is there a bird which regularly builds its nest near your home? 
What about that mother robin which would not continue her domestic 
arrangements when you moved her nest from directly under the 
eaves? Have you a fine globe of gold fish? How do you care for 
them? Is your canary bird healthy and happy? What do you feed it? 
Have any of your pets betrayed striking intelligence? Do you live in 
some part of the country where there are animals indigenous to that 
region ? 

A picture of yourself with that string of fish may sell to an out¬ 
door magazine of some kind, provided you tell just how you caught the 
fish; or to a railroad company to use in a folder to advertise the fishing 
grounds to which its steel road will carry the pleasure seeker. Enjoy 
an outing this summer and pay yourself for doing it, not only in health 
and pleasure, but in cash as well. 

Automobile Articles .—With millions of dollars invested in power 
vehicles and the machinery with which to produce them, it is to be 
expected that many publications will be devoted to this and allied 
interests. Some of the popular magazines have even recognized this 
demand by starting departments for the instruction of drivers of motor 
cars. 

Articles dealing with practical just-how helps; the encouragement 
of good roads and good feeling among drivers; articles intended to 
familiarize people with the mechanical principles involved; technical 
articles describing proposed improvements; and fiction reflecting auto¬ 
mobile situations and figures in a pleasing, entertaining manner, or 


How to Choose Your Own Field of Writing 


203 


showing the advantages of automobiles for all sorts of uses, will serve 
a purpose. 

If you are fortunate enough to ride much during the coming season, 
you may turn a single experience into cash enough to cover the season’s 
expenses. Scan the pages of automobile and power publications and 
observe the type of the occasional automobile article or story that has 
received editorial sanction; and, knowing what has been found suit¬ 
able, you will know better where to place your own offerings of this 
kind. 

Baby-W elf are Literature .—This is said to be the age of the child. 
Better Baby Campaigns, Baby Weeks, and Infant Welfare Stations 
are familiar terms. This is not a passing fad. Far-seeing individuals 
are coming to realize the importance of properly caring for babies 
and training them in a scientific manner. If anything interesting has 
been done in your community to promote the welfare of the child, write 
it up; get photographs if you can, especially of the prize winners. 
Sunday papers with a local circulation and suitable periodicals will be 
interested. 

Experience articles having to do with the care, feeding and training 
of the child are especially welcome. Observation of what others do 
and fail to do will give many suggestions. If a note-book is at hand, 
ideas for articles of this nature may often be gleaned on a railroad 
journey, a street car ride, or while waiting to be served in a store. 

There is a large amount of baby literature furnished by the State 
and Federal governments which may be had for the asking. Phy¬ 
sicians, trained nurses with hospital experience in the care of children, 
and others who may have made a special study have written exhaust¬ 
ively on the subject. It is well to have a little knowledge of what 
others have offered in this line that you may add your own experience 
or present the subject from a different angle. It is necessary, also, to 
keep in touch with up-to-date ideas on the care of the child. 

There is a marked tendency of late to call attention to the parental 
responsibility of the father as well as the mother and to emphasize the 
importance of right habit formation during early years. Household 
periodicals, magazines intended especially for the mother, women’s 
departments in agricultural and religious publications, use material of 
this type. 

Back-of-the-Book Articles. —Write-ups of about a thousand words 
in length, dealing with topics in which women are specially interested, 
are used by some household publications in the last pages of the maga¬ 
zine. These fill up unused pages to advantage and are longer than the 
straight “filler.” Sometimes the contributors are directed to address 
such material to the Back-of-the-book Editor, so that it will come to 
the notice of the right department. 

Back-of-the-book material may deal with beauty subjects, points of 
etiquette, health, or anything of a suitable personal nature. Current 
events, or subjects dealing with general affairs or conditions, are not 
favored for this class of material. 

In scanning a number of periodicals, the following subjects have 
been approved for use by the Back-of-the-book Editor, catchy titles 
being given to the thousand word articles: “The Proper Care of 


204 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


Jewelry,” “Family Loyalty,” “Preventing Wrinkles,” “Acquiring the 
Fashionable Figure,” “How I Appropriate my Allowance,” “My 
Daughter’s Friends,” etc., etc. 

Boy Material .—Material intended for boy readers automatically 
divides itself into types suitable for the different ages of development. 
There are publications devoted to the little boy, the half-grown lad, 
and the adolescent youth. 

The small boy must depend upon an older person to read to him. 
So the material offered should meet the needs of his life at this time— 
suggestive stories of simple games, rainy-day occupations, simple con¬ 
structive work, and stories which, without having an obvious moral, 
promote kindness to animals, thoughtfulness, and other desirable 
characteristics. Such tales are best limited to from five to eight hun¬ 
dred words, as a young child’s attention cannot be held long. 

The offerings for the half-grown boy must show him interesting 
things to do, point out how he can excel his companions, and magnify 
general agility. This is the age when the child is a competitor, and he 
likes to conquer alone; consequently, he will be interested in stories 
dealing with people of strength and courage, even if they are older 
than himself. Hero tales appeal. The boy of this age also heartily 
enjoys the right kind of biography and adventure. He is an experi¬ 
menter, so tell him what to do and how to do it. 

The older boy of adolescent years will be interested in scientific 
facts, wood craft, team play, and the means by which his group may 
excel, or his club win a victory. Stories for this age must recognize 
this instinct of community spirit which manifests itself at this age, 
and emphasize the normal boy’s admiration for fair play. The story 
of athletic games, boarding-school adventures, and camping groups 
are not staged at this age by accident. There is a purpose underlying 
their presentation at this time. The boy begins to live in an ideal 
world, starts to day dream, and so respects the real achievements of 
his elders. The attraction of the sexes begins to be felt. The boy 
demands a reason for everything, so loves argument. His sense of 
humor is keen. Literature prepared for him should recognize all these 
facts. 

In addition to this, he will take a little instruction on conduct, if it is 
sugar-coated; but he does not enjoy moralizing, and will promptly 
resent too direct teaching. Stories must teach their own lesson by the 
outcome of the facts recounted, rather than by a moral tacked on at 
the end. The same is largely true of the article dealing with conduct 
and the social graces. A story showing the advantages of these things 
in the life of one or more characters will have far more influence than 
a straight essay on the subject. 

Business-Building Material .—There are a number of important 
publications devoted to business building along general lines. These 
do not confine themselves to promoting the interests of any one trade 
or profession. Their columns are open to accounts of short cuts, prac¬ 
tical business methods, descriptions of economical equipment, or any¬ 
thing that will help men to bigger business, greater profits, or worth 
while economies. 


How to Choose Your Own Field of Writing 205 


The business article that gets across does not deal in vague generali¬ 
ties. It is specific. It tells “how,” “why,” or “when.” It may deal 
with the business man himself, with his plant, his employees, his trade¬ 
getting system, or any one of a thousand other topics. Some of the 
brightest minds of the time are devoted to business building; for, 
without stable business conditions, the prosperity of the country cannot 
continue. Such publications may use an occasional piece of fiction 
dealing with a business situation. Then there is a different type of 
publication of which the American Magazine is probably the leader. 
High-class business fiction and general articles of an entertaining, as 
well as an instructive, nature are offered. The appeal is purposely 
very broad, and the influence of legislation and of general economic 
conditions, as effected business, are considered. In fact, a first-class 
business story written in an entertaining manner has the right of way 
with many publications, and the prices paid for them are most gen¬ 
erous. 

Children s Publications .—The many needs of children are recog¬ 
nized in a number of magazines devoted to their interests and by 
special departments in general publications. The magazine that ap¬ 
peals especially to children has a definite policy. It may be prepared 
for the tiny tots and contain Suitable stories, games, rhymes, pictures, 
and rebus material; or it may be addressed to the slightly older child 
who can appreciate occasional instructive write-ups, longer stories, 
interesting biographies, entertainment and occupational suggestions. 
Nature material, special day articles having to do with patriotism, and 
seasonable themes are sure to be included. Some of these magazines 
are published for boys only, others for girls, and still others for both 
boys and girls. 

The children’s departments in the household publications usually 
contain a little juvenile fiction, an opportunity to correspond with the 
one in charge, or to enter contests of some instructive nature. Puzzles, 
epigrams, enigmas, acrostics, and puzzle pictures are often used. The 
agricultural papers recognize the need of the children by including 
fiction and games prepared from the standpoint of the child on the 
farm. Some of the educational magazines are interested in poems, 
sketches, stories, and dialogues which can be used for program pur¬ 
poses or read to the children by the teacher in connection with a lesson 
in history, geography, good manners, and so forth. 

The publications issued weekly for the various ages of boys and 
girls by the different church boards offer excellent examples of the 
class of material they desire, and it will be observed that most of these 
articles have an approximate word limit. 

The writer for children must be in sympathy with them and be 
able to see with their eyes as well as with grown-up vision. Children 
like action, and are not interested by description. That is one reason 
why the moving picture so appeals to them. 

Samples of the different publications should be studied. Some have 
a fixed rule which prohibits the use of ghost, Indian, or fairy stories; 
others do not like talking animals, or the element of love between the 
sexes; while others state frankly that none of these things used in the 
right way are in the least objectionable to them. Slang and the use 


206 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


of incorrect English may only be used in the most limited way to depict 
a particular type of character. Editors are careful not to print on their 
pages that to which careful mothers will object. 

Special booklets for children are issued in connection with a large 
number of manufactured articles. One recently noted recounted the 
life and death struggles between the Army of the Teeth and the 
Troops of General D. K. Germ. General Carelessness also took a 
part. Of course, a certain worthy mouth antiseptic was featured as 
the First Aid Corps of the Health Army. Children reading this 
would be entertained and instructed on the importance of mouth clean¬ 
liness. Such booklets are in the nature of advertising especially di¬ 
rected to young people. 

Even among children’s periodicals there are distinctly class publica¬ 
tions intended to foster a particular interest, such as: Missions, Boy 
Scout work, Camp Fire Girl activities, and so on. Rainy day games, 
short plays, folk lore, simplified mythology, and accounts of what real 
boys have actually done will find a place. In writing for children 
and young people, make the teaching positive instead of negative. 
Editors favor stories that tell what to do, rather than what not to do. 

Church Publications .—Religious publications divide themselves into 
three distinct classes. First, those intended for the student or the 
teacher in the Sunday School, or Bible School, as it is now more gener¬ 
ally called. These contain material helpful in the preparation of the 
week’s lesson and special articles with the psychology of youth, definite 
methods, or subjects of evangelistic appeal. 

Secondly, publications containing interesting reading matter. These 
are known as story papers, to be distributed among the young people 
of the Sunday School each week. The material is selected with a view 
to being both helpful and entertaining. 

The third class is devoted largely to reportorial work of the denom¬ 
ination, to public problems, and moral issues. Some of these maga¬ 
zines maintain a department devoted to matter dealing with child 
training, approved amusements, accounts of successful uplift work, 
and possibly fiction carrying out the editorial policy. In addition to 
this, there is editorial comment on current events, and suggestive mat¬ 
ter for the young people’s societies of the church. Each church has a 
group of such publications as its own. Work done for them must be 
carefully executed as the readers are people of education, including 
ministers and college professors, not to mention the well-to-do church 
families. 

It will be seen that a wide lititude is allowed the writer for church 
publications, always provided, of course, that he understands the par¬ 
ticular ethical point of view from which such articles must be written. 
Among the characteristics necessary for successful work in this field, 
are definite knowledge, breadth of vision, and sincerity. 

Department Work .—Regular departments relating to gardening, 
the care of the baby, food preparation, finance, investment opportuni¬ 
ties, and the like are placed in the hands of those considered authori¬ 
ties on the subject. A specially strong article along a popular line may 
open the door to department service, showing the writer to be thor¬ 
oughly in touch with the facts of that particular field. 


How to Choose Your Own Field of Writing 


207 


Many of the agricultural as well as the general publications main¬ 
tain special columns. The work is pleasant and may be planned for 
well in advance. It can be done beneath the writer’s home roof, the 
work going back and forth to the editorial office by mail. 

If you know a great deal about the raising of poultry, the planting 
of bulbs, the decoration of a home, the drawing of architectural plans, 
the law relating to business problems, or any other topic in which 
many people are interested, you are likely to receive a respectful hear¬ 
ing if you apply for a department position and are able to show that 
you can make your knowledge clear to others. Even if an opening does 
not exist at the time, your name will be on file for future consideration. 

In connection with many of these departments, a special service is 
given to the readers, either free or for a small charge. That is, letters 
of inquiry may be written and advice gained through the magazine 
department or from personal letters of advice. Service work of this 
kind takes much of the writer’s time as only conscientious work is per¬ 
missible, but it brings a vast fund of human interest material to the 
writer, broadens his knowledge of people, and deepens his sympathies 
as perhaps nothing else can. 

Essays .—The writer of essays has a somewhat limited market, for 
an essay must approach the special article type to find much of a hear¬ 
ing for itself. To be sure, there are a few publications dealing with 
the didactic essay. These are principally religious and expository mag¬ 
azines intended for a class of readers educated along a certain line. 
Satirical, whimsical, and epigrammatic essays will find a place if brief 
and sparkling. Some of the standard publications reserve a place for 
these in a special department at the back of the book. Others plan 
to use a single short essay on a literary or humorous subject in each 
issue. Some of the humorous magazines use a special type of essay 
material dealing with some public issue. These are mostly of a ridi¬ 
culous nature and intended to furnish a sort of vaudeville turn in the 
entertainment program. 

Fancy Work .—Besides the periodicals devoted wholly to lace mak¬ 
ing, needle work, china painting, leather work, and the like, most of the 
household magazines and departments also use this material. A very 
little skill in drawing will sometimes serve to illuminate or at least 
to convey the idea clearly enough that the magazine artists can picture 
the article described. 

Easter and Christmas seasons call for gift making and large quan¬ 
tities of fancy work suggestions and illustrations. To be in time, 
material should be submitted from four to six months ahead of publi¬ 
cation. The previous spring months are a good time to make holiday 
offerings. The smaller publications and weeklies use material at a 
later date. 

Care should be taken not to send anything already featured, or 
lacking in novelty, usefulness, and beauty. The directions should be 
so plainly given as to be easily comprehended. Let such material stand 
a few days; then read it again, to see if it can be condensed or made 
plainer. 

Publications devoted to the millinery trade use articles dealing with 
the making of fancy ribbon flowers and simple novelties. Fashion 


208 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


magazines are on the alert for unique and beautiful hand-made trim¬ 
ming suggestions. Some of the large manufacturers of embroidery 
silks have use for illustrated write-ups featuring articles made from 
their supplies. 

Food Magazines and Cookery Departments .—There are several 
publications dealing with the better understanding of food, its pur¬ 
chase, care, preparation, and service. Material for these must be 
along the lines followed by the magazines in selection. Even the 
stories and general articles must have a point of contact with food, 
cookery, or service. Articles dealing with economy methods are es¬ 
pecially popular. 

The household and agricultural publications maintain departments 
for the home, in which similar material is used. Tested recipes and 
clear-cut photographs of prepared dishes are likely to find a place. 
Some of the larger publications have cookery editors who test recipes 
sent in to find whether they are practical and if the ingredients are 
rightly combined. 

Articles dealing with food for children, the school lunch, balanced 
rations for the home table, food for the sick, for convalescents; menus 
for special seasons of the year, for entertainment purposes, and special 
occasions are suitable; also tested methods, informative articles con¬ 
cerning food manufacture and preservation, such as the manufacture 
of maple sugar; storing eggs for winter use; accounts of simple home 
tests of pure foods—all are wanted. 

Almost every housewife has some pet method of doing something 
well, or knows someone who excels in some department of home man¬ 
agement. Why not cash in on this valuable knowledge and give others 
the benefit of it as well? In this field the practical, tested article has 
the right of way, and justly so, as theory may sound all right on paper 
but may not work out in every-day use. 

How to care for table linen, silver, glass; food customs in different 
lands; formal and informal luncheons and dinners and wedding re¬ 
pasts; holiday entertainment plans with menus that carry out color 
schemes; articles that show how to entertain in a crowded space; 
and the use of new accessories all are suitable topics for discussion. 

Garments and Accessories .—Everyone is interested in the question 
of raiment. Plans for the making of new clothing, economy in re¬ 
modelling, the utilization and combination of different materials, di¬ 
rections for home dyeing, bleaching, and renovating are constantly 
met on the printed page for the reason that the question, “Where¬ 
withal shall we be clothed ?” is ever present. 

The expectant mother is eager to know how to plan the layette for 
the new baby; the mother with a family wants to learn how others 
solved the problem of comfortable, stylish dressing at reasonable cost 
for the growing youngsters. 

The home dressmaker welcomes information on how to give her 
work a finished appearance, and the skilled dressmaker scans the pages 
of the current publications for fashion hints and practical ideas. The 
making of dainty underwear, embroidering of sheer garments, and the 
shaping of untility articles for gift purposes and home use will always 
be topics of interest. 


How to Choose Your Own Field of Writing 


209 


Household publications, magazines for mothers, home and family 
departments, and newspapers use this class of material. The news¬ 
paper articles are generally supplied by syndicates, but back of the 
syndicate must be the writer. 

Girl's Publications. —There are a number of periodicals devoted 
wholly to the interests of girls. These should be studied individually, 
as most of them make a clear-cut appeal to a particular age. The 
periodical for the very little ones will deal with boys and girls as play¬ 
mates, but stories intended for the girl of from six to twelve should 
only take boys into account in a minor way; for, at this age, the sexes 
are repellant. Stories dealing with individual achievement and private 
ownership meet a need of this age. The girl longs for her own books, 
her own room, her own chums. 

Stories prepared for a girl from twelve to seventeen will take into 
account her influence on her group of friends and the influence of her 
friends on her. Articles having to do with the social graces, as an 
expression of kindliness of heart, are constructive. The older girl 
begins to appreciate self-sacrifice and to rejoice in overcoming obstacles. 
This is the development of the maternal instinct. 

Stories dealing with a girl or a family, and appearing as a series, are 
rather more popular with girls than with boys, for the reason that 
the girl idealizes her real and her mental companions. 

Many publications not wholly devoted to girls, but rather directed 
to the whole family, incorporate one or two girl stories regularly in 
each issue. You can look for them with certainty in a special part 
of the publication. Such stories should be seasonable, and, while 
making the fine, womanly type of girl the heroine, should not fail to 
depict her as natural and fun loving. 

Household Efficiency. —Articles dealing with better household 
management, a careful apportionment of expenses, economy of time 
and effort, and anything interesting to the housewife, or calculated to 
help her do a better day’s work and do it easier, to feed her family 
more satisfactorily, to manage her children more easily, clothe them 
more acceptably, or to gain for herself a clearer idea of the importance 
of her task, will give the nucleus of a helpful article. 

Humorous Stuff. —Original jokes, witty anecdotes, humorous 
stories, good-natured satires, parodies, and amusing monologues are 
issued by publications devoted wholly to fun-making, as well as by 
regular departments in standard publications and as fillers in many 
other magazines. Each joke or anecdote should be written on a sep¬ 
arate sheet of paper, properly prepared, as one of a group may be 
accepted and the rest rejected. The humorous monologue often finds 
a market with the publisher of entertainment material. 

Relating to Education. —More interest is being taken in schools 
and educational methods to-day than ever before. Visual education 
and vocational guidance have won distinct places for themselves. 
Articles having to do with schoolroom methods, with securing the 
co-operation of parents and teachers, with improving school and com¬ 
munity conditions, are welcomed by educational publications. 

Accounts of Parent-Teachers’ Associations and their achievements 
find a place in club chronicles. When it is remembered that within 


210 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


the last two years the number of Parent-Teachers Associations has 
doubled, and trebled in some parts of the country, it will be seen that 
a steadily increasing number of people are interested in representative 
activities. 

New and unusual teaching methods are sure to be exploited. A 
great deal of space was given to the Montesorri method, and, from 
time to time, the experiences of individual parents and teachers, who 
have done unusual things along pioneer trails, are encountered. 

If there is a school in your vicinity, or a teacher, or a parent using 
unique methods and meeting with success, or if you know of a Club 
that has done something out of the ordinary, you have material that 
can be turned into cash if not already exploited. Educational and 
household publications are both markets for articles of this nature. 
Naturally, the write-up has to be prepared in a little different manner 
if intended for a body of educators or for general readers, the latter 
being only concerned with principles and results, rather than with 
means of securing results. 

Scientific Articles .—Scientific articles deal with exact facts. Fine 
writing need not be attempted. There are many publications that pur¬ 
chase material having to do with modern invention, the application 
of scientific principles, and explanation of natural phenomena. Other 
scientific articles deal with public health and safety, and are of a wider 
appeal. 

Technical magazines, such as those devoted to electrical products, 
pharmaceutical chemistry, and the like, welcome those familiar with 
subjects that touch their field of service. 

It has happened more than once that a genius has been discovered 
through the submittal of scientific material. Young people’s publica¬ 
tions welcome suitable science articles if simply and clearly written. 
They must, of necessity, be short and deal with a single fact or a few 
co-related facts. A rough drawing will often make sufficient illus¬ 
tration. 

The field for material of this kind may begin with the stars in the 
sky and end—well, there is no end. There is no limit to the subjects 
one may treat in an interesting way. Writers acquainted with any 
of the arts, trades, or professions, have a special fund of information 
from which to draw. 

Suburban Publications .—The many means of rapid transportation 
make it possible for the one who labors in the city to live in suburban 
surroundings. Masonry-bound business districts become wearisome; 
the human heart longs for a breath of fresh air sweeping across 
growing fields; for a sight of green grass and brown earth. Surround¬ 
ing every city and dotting the country in every direction, are sub¬ 
urban settlements, summer colonies, and all-the-year-around towns, 
inhabited by people of culture, many of whom are occupied with busi¬ 
ness elsewhere, part of the year at least. 

This has given rise to a class of high-grade publications intended 
to meet the needs of commuters and those who live in country sur¬ 
roundings, although not engaged in agricultural pursuits. Such 
periodicals deal with a variety of subjects likely to be of interest to the 
countryside dweller. The following are suggestive: 


How to Choose Your Own Field of Writing 


211 


Arbor Day History and its Advantages, Antique Furniture of Good 
Taste, Autumn Legends, Preparing the Garden for Winter, The Care 
of Our Automobile, A Home-made Garage, A Small and Practical 
Barn, Building Costs, Bird Lore, When We Plant Our Bulbs, Hardy 
Fall Flowers, Shrubbery, House Plants, The Care of the Pet Cat, 
Solving the Problem of Lights, Water-Works, Septic Tanks, Gas and 
Electricity for the Isolated Home, The Breeding of Dogs, Furniture, 
Upholstery and Drapery Suggestions, The Care of Trees and the Best 
Way to Combat Various Pests, Schools and Their Efficiency, Advant¬ 
ages of Suburban Life, Weeds and Their Extermination, Making the 
Most of the Small Garden Plot, Planning the Formal Garden, Rais¬ 
ing Flowers and Vegetables for Profit, Small Fruits—Their Care 
and Preservation, Advantages of Different Styles of Floors and Floor 
Coverings, Art in the Country Home, Discussions of Wall Coverings 
and Artistic Decorations, Ideal Kitchen Plans, Advice Concerning the 
Care of Lawns, The Library of the Home and Country Community, 
Music and its Influence, Poultry Raising, Road Making, Practical 
Roofs, Shopping by Mail, The Rural Playground, The Telephone 
in the New House and the Old, Clothing Suitable for the Country¬ 
side, Vacation Articles, Cultivation of Shade Trees, Fruit and Nut 
T rees. 

A wide variety of general articles are used, yet they all have the 
underlying principle of making life easier, pleasanter, or more beauti¬ 
ful for the suburban dweller. 

Trade Publications .—Every branch of trade has it own publications 
—furniture, hardware, carpets, rugs, paints, bakery, transportation, 
confectionery, implement, vehicle, department store, five and ten cent 
store, leather goods, sporting goods, poultry, shoes, office equipment, 
cement, jewelry, grocery, electrical, and so on. 

Articles acceptable for these publications may be picked up from 
time to time by anyone. They may be a description of some special 
selling method, a report of a newly-established business, the consoli¬ 
dation of two businesses, or a fire that wipes out an old and well- 
known establishment. Occasionally some firm celebrates its centen¬ 
ary, or the head of the firm becomes a political light, and interest 
awakens in his characteristics and history. 

General trade articles should contain practical and helpful sugges¬ 
tions for better business. You should mention conditions peculiar to 
the trade for which you are writing in order to give the point of con¬ 
tact and show a familiarity with that field. Sometimes such articles 
may be written from the standpoint of the customer, other times from 
that of an observer. A couple of illustrations may be suggestive. 

A writer happened to hear a neighbor sputtering about a local paint 
contractor. The man had charged a large sum for painting a double 
house, then had demanded fifty cents extra for painting her clothes 
poles to match. That was all, but it gave an idea for an article which 
sold the first trip out, entitled “A Costly Clothes Pole.” The article 
showed the short-sighted policy of the contractor who thus offended 
the owner of considerable tenement property, who promptly trans¬ 
ferred her painting patronage to the contractor’s competitor. No 


212 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


special knowledge of the business of painting was necessary. It simply 
stated facts which might have been self-evident to anyone. 

Again, an office worker discovered several short cuts for doing 
every-day tasks. These were incorporated in an article and readily 
sold to an office equipment periodical. These opened the way for 
several other write-ups on “From the Stenographer’s Point of View.” 

Many of the trade publications use fiction dealing with the problems 
of that particular calling. Practically any story with a business appli¬ 
cation may be adapted readily to the particular class of trade publica¬ 
tion to which you wish it submitted. Suppose, for example, that you 
wish to emphasize the thought that the man who collects promptly, 
and discounts his bills, is successful because he has good credit. It is 
as easy to locate your story in a jewelry store as in a grocery store, and 
to make your characters play the part. 

If you know of anyone in your locality who has employed some 
unusual business method to keep sales up during the dull summer 
months, or to stimulate holiday business, or to establish a trade on a 
special line of goods, write it up and send it to the publication that 
should be interested in it. Practical advertising methods as well as 
business gaining plans are acceptable. 

Writing for Syndicates .—A “Syndicate” is a body of people, or a 
firm, that undertakes to negotiate business of some kind. Some years 
ago the idea was conceived of establishing a literary syndicate to buy 
stories, articles, puzzles, and household material from individuals. 
This material would be re-sold to a number of publications, all of 
which would have the right to use it on or after a certain day. This 
arrangement was made so that no one buying the use of the service 
would have the advantage of the others. That is, it would be 
“released” to all on a certain date. This explains why the same story 
or item may appear in a number of newspapers in different parts of 
the country on the same day. 

Many magazine sections of Sunday papers are partially made up 
of syndicate material, also the inside pages (patent insides) of many 
country newspapers. Some syndicates handle only children’s pages, 
others purchase material with a serial quality, while others have use 
for a miscellany, including stuff of the Walt Mason type, short busi¬ 
ness articles, or humorous material. Some of these syndicates feature 
a special service offering a copyrighted short story for use in daily 
papers. 

The prices paid by syndicates are about the same as the smaller 
magazines’ rates, unless it be for leader articles by well-known people, 
and then large sums are paid. If connection can be formed and satis¬ 
factory material furnished, it affords a large market for the writer’s 
efforts. 


Chapter IV 


WHY MANUSCRIPTS ARE REJECTED 

Photoplays .—The rejection of a manuscript is generally a mystery 
to its author; he can’t for the life of him understand why his work 
should be returned. On the contrary, he fails to perceive how any 
editor could exist without his brain child. 

In the light of this, a few words from one who has read several 
thousand hopeless manuscripts might not be entirely amiss. 

One manuscript may be rejected because of its theme; another be¬ 
cause of the plot lacks a worth while idea; but, going through the files 
of my mind, I find that the nine most frequent defects in a beginner’s 
work, in order of their frequency, are as follows: (1) A frank or 
veiled repetition of a play, or the major part of a play, already filmed; 
(2) lacking in dramatic possibilities; (3) plot composed of a series of 
incidents, more or less vaguely related, but not leading to a major 
climax; (4) a wandering plot, beginning at childhood and ending in 
old age—lightly skipping from Portland to Paris, for no particular 
reason; (5) theme too morbid or depressing, or dealing extensively 
with unpleasant subjects, such as, white slavery, drug using, the under¬ 
world, and so on; (6) insincere—writer lacks a knowledge of human 
nature; (7) lacking in suspense; (8) idea not interesting to the 
average person; and (9) lack of motive; consequently, no reason why 
the play should have been written. 

It is not necessary to go into details relative to the above defects. 
All of them have been treated extensively all through previous chap¬ 
ters of this book. It is sufficient to let the beginner definitely know 
that these form the “mysterious” reasons why so many thousands of 
photoplays are returned with the little white slip. 

Stories and Articles .—There are only two good reasons why a story 
or article should be published: either it appeals to the editor or he 
thinks his readers will like it. There are, however, a number of ex¬ 
cellent reasons for making use of the stamps the author so considerately 
incloses. Stories are most frequently rejected because they are either 
(1) unfit, (2) unsuitable, (3) untimely, (4) not in harmony with 
editorial policy, (5) similar to a story already published or waiting 
publication, (6) too long, (7) too short, or (8) the story does not 
appeal to the editor. 

Reason number one covers about ninety per cent, of rejections. 
Most submitted manuscripts are not fit for publication; in fact, the 
majority are not even worth the paper they are written on—and some 
arrive laboriously transcribed on discarded grocer’s sacks, not to men¬ 
tion cast-off wall paper! In short, most stories and articles are not 
purchased because they are unfit for publication and could not be made 
salable even by a genius. 

Unsuitableness explains the rejection of a great many manuscripts. 
Often they are interesting and well-written, but offered to the wrong 


214 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


magazine. This only goes to prove that the author usually is a poor 
salesman, incapable of selling his own work; or he is too wrapped up 
in writing to make a careful study of market conditions and require¬ 
ments. 

Many scripts come back because they are untimely. It is ludicrous 
how so many writers fail to realize that an event is good copy until 
long after the public has ceased thinking about it. Again, many 
beginners do not understand that magazine articles and stories are 
purchased fully four months in advance of publication. The amateur 
often forgets to write a Christmas story until the holidays are almost 
upon him. Then he rushes off a manuscript a couple of months before 
Christmas—and the editor rushes it back! 

There is no need of discussing manuscripts not in harmony with 
editorial policies. Keep in touch with what editors want, that’s all. 

An author deserves sympathy when his story is rejected because 
something similar is being prepared for publication, or has just ap¬ 
peared. But too many writers knowingly solicit defeat by sending 
in stories and articles like others they have read. To them no sym¬ 
pathy should be forthcoming. 

Some stories are rejected because they are too short for division or 
too long for one installment. This is another case of the author’s 
lack of foresight and judgment. 

Many excellent manuscripts have been refused by magazines to 
whom they were, as far as experienced judgment could perceive, ad¬ 
mirably suited, even when those same magazines were in the market 
for the particular type of story submitted. The same script, perhaps, 
was quickly accepted by the next magazine to whom it was sent. An 
editor likes a story, or he doesn’t like it. In the latter case, his dis¬ 
like may be so strong that he doesn’t ask himself whether his readers 
might be interested. 

A careful study of the above reasons for rejection will do the begin¬ 
ner a world of good. 





Chapter V 


HOW SUCCESSFUL WRITERS SELL THEIR 
MANUSCRIPTS 

There are four ways of selling stories and photoplays: (1) selling 
under contract; that is, preparing a certain story or play at the editor’s 
order and request; (2) offering your manuscript in person to the 
studio or magazine to whom you think it is best suited; (3) submit¬ 
ting your work through the mail; and (4) selling through the aid of 
a Literary Agent, or Bureau. 

Selling Under Contract. —So far as the beginner is concerned, there 
is no need of discussing the first method. Only writers of well- 
established reputation ever are commissioned to write a certain style 
of play or story. 

Some extremely popular authors have contracted to supply various 
magazines and studios with their entire output of work for a fixed 
period; but, inasmuch as reputation is the primary prerequisite, the 
method need not be discussed. 

Offering a Manuscript in Person. —No time need be wasted on this 
method. Editors are busy men; they do not have time to devote to 
interviews. The chances are that both you and your work will re¬ 
ceive slight consideration if you attempt to sell it in person. If you go 
to an editor with your work in hand, the chances are that he will 
reject it without giving it a fair chance—unless you are well-known; 
but, if you send it to him through the mail, it will be given as much of 
a chance to prove its merits as any other script, no matter whom the 
author. 

This brings us to the third method of selling. 

Selling Through the Mail. —This is perhaps the most common way 
to dispose of manuscripts. Where one manuscript is sold by either of 
the above methods, perhaps a thousand are sold through the mail. 

Don’t be afraid to mail your script to an editor for consideration. 
Very rarely indeed is one lost; and, if you keep a carbon copy of 
everything you send out, you won’t even need to register your letter. 

For some incomprehensible reason, many beginners are often pos¬ 
sessed with the absurd notion that editors steal work. To the experi¬ 
enced editor this is laughable. For years the author has personally 
supervised the submittal of hundreds, yes thousands, of stories to 
magazines all over the country. And not a single case of theft, or at¬ 
tempted theft, has come to his attention. I do not believe there is a 
magazine in the country that would steal any part of a submitted 
story. They are absolutely honest and trustworthy. Why shouldn’t 
they be? Is there any reason in the world why a magazine editor 
should steal a manuscript, face future disgrace and unlimited expense 
through publicity and legal redress, when he can buy all the good 
productions he can use at regular rates, and be on the safe side ? 

True, I- have heard it whispered in dark corners that some motion 




216 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


picture studios have in the past made use of ideas sent them without 
purchasing the scripts in which they appeared. In fact, it is said that 
a certain “reader” in Los Angeles—employed by a well-known film 
company to pass on all submitted manuscripts—took the plot of a 
submitted script and sold it as his own. But justice soon overtook him. 
To-day he is a wandering outcast, living in disgrace as far as the motion 
picture industry is concerned. So, you see, even photoplay editors do 
not tolerate theft. 

The motion picture industry is young; naturally it was, in the begin¬ 
ning, infected with pirates; but the day has passed when a writer need 
be afraid of submitting anything to any reputable film manufacturer. 
They will treat you “square.” 

Selling Through the Literary Agency, or Bureau .—Many success¬ 
ful authors sell practically their entire output of stories and plays 
through agencies. Different agencies have different methods of pro¬ 
cedure. As a rule, the author leaves the question of price to the agent. 
He may, however, set a maximum and a minimum price to be paid 
for his work. In addition, he generally makes a deposit to cover cost 
of postage to and from various editors. This, of course, he would be 
required to pay himself if he submitted his own work. In addition 
to the postage, he is required to pay the agent a commission—usually 
from ten to twenty per cent.—of the price his work brings. 

This method has many advantages over all others. The agent keeps 
in close touch with all magazines and studios; he has their require¬ 
ments at his finger-tips, so to speak; he knows the fine points with re¬ 
spect to editorial tastes, needs and peculiarities, so knows exactly to 
whom to submit—a thing few writers know, not having the time or 
the inclination to study market requirements; he knows which editors 
are overstocked; he saves the author the embarrassment and trouble of 
selling—a thing he is rarely capable of doing well—thus giving the 
author more time for his writing; and, as a rule, the agent is able to 
secure a higher price than the author. 

Some would-be advisors have warned authors not to have dealings 
with agents under any circumstances, claiming they are dishonest and 
likely to steal manuscripts, then sell them under slightly altered form. 
How brainlessly idiotic is this accusation! What a fool an agent 
would be to risk his reputation, his business, and his comfortable in¬ 
come derived from sales, for the petty, paltry trick of stealing a manu¬ 
script. Suppose, however, that an agent did steal one. Even suppose 
he succeeded in selling it for $5,000—a pretty good price, by the way. 
He would be the loser; he would be disgraced, he would be prose¬ 
cuted, his business would be ruined, his income and source of living 
cut off. In short, he would lose liberty, reputation, happiness, ,and 
a life-long business—amounting the thousands of dollars, perhaps— 
for the comparatively paltry sum he would get for one manuscript. 
Don’t you see how senseless it would be to accuse agents of theft? 

Some of the greatest writers in the world have indorsed literary 
agencies. Thousands of writers have succeeded through the help of 
the agent when they had hopelessly failed on their own behalf. There 
is no reason in the world why you should not offer your work for sale 
through an agency if you desire. 


Chapter VI 


MERITING SUCCESS 

Do not expect that everything you write will sell readily. You may 
not have offered it in the right direction, or at the right time, or possi¬ 
bly your manuscript is weak in some respect. There are many writers 
who rejoice that their first amateur efforts did not sell. But keep on 
trying! Let your motto be, “I will beat my own record,” and re¬ 
member you have no competitor to fear except Yesterday. 

Success will not be attained by spasmodic efforts. The writer must 
be regular and persistent, yet even regularity and persistence may have 
a drawback, if the same mistakes are made over and over. The fault 
you do not see may be a mannerism of speech, or an attitude of mind 
you have never recognized because it has so long been a part of your 
own life. 

A writer of unusual talent succeeded in gaining a small editorial 
hearing. Beyond this he did not seem to be able to go. The trouble 
was that, because of an unhappy childhood, he viewed everything from 
a critical, doubting angle, almost invariably leaving an unpleasant 
taste in the reader’s mouth. Even his rejection slips embittered him. 

Another writer with a similar background argued: “I know what 
the lack of happiness means, so the highest purpose of my life shall be 
to bring sunshine into the lives of others. My words shall carry 
optimism, and hope, and cheer. They shall point outward and upward 
rather than down.” And so her writing, though it dealt with homely 
things, had all the inspirational value of an angel’s song. The thoughts 
she sent out to others were so generous and true that a Gulf Stream of 
Appreciation flowed back to her. 

It is not possible for us always to diagnose our own cases. We may 
lack the knowledge or the faculty to be purely disinterested. A manu¬ 
script sent out vainly a dozen times may eat up as much postage as 
would pay for an expert diagnosis. 

The manufacturer of fine extracts or good soaps prepares his mer¬ 
chandise and then puts it away to ripen. If he offers his product for 
sale at once he knows it is inferior to what it will be later on. The 
boy who leaves school at fourteen or fifteen to earn a weekly wage of 
eight, ten, or even fifteen dollars, may feel rich, but what about the 
future ? What will be his earning capacity in ten years ? 

The writer who is too impatient to give proper time and prepara¬ 
tion to his work, who offers crude and immature products, is not using 
as much foresight and policy as one who plans, writes, and waits until 
the material cools off, then revises and writes again. 

Greater is the reward of the author who sells one article for twenty 
dollars than the reward of another who sells two for ten. The twenty- 
dollar check shows the first has acquired a much greater earning ca¬ 
pacity than the second who received the ten-dollar check. The first 
can soon turn out two products of the twenty-dollar class as easily and 



218 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


in as short a time as the other can turn out three at ten dollars. And 
so their paths diverge, one becoming constantly more capable, the other 
barely holding his own. 

What shall I write? Let my own heart answer. Manufactured 
interest on my part will not call forth spontaneous interest on the part 
of readers. Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm. 

Why shall I write? That I may serve my fellow people by adding 
to the richness of their lives in some way. Unless I have something 
to give, I may not hope to get. “He who serves best profits most.” 
“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” but conscientious labor must 
come before the expection of reward. 

When shall I write? Regularly, persistently, tirelessly. A little 
success may be won in a short time by the few, but back of that success 
is sure to be a logical explanation. An amateur speaker was called 
upon to address an important public audience. Being in earnest, and 
having something to say, he carried his hearers with him and was 
applauded to the echo. The newspapers rang with the masterful ad¬ 
dress. 

“How long were you preparing that speech?” the man was asked. 

“Why,” he returned thoughtfully, “I had about an hour’s notice. 
I made these notes on the back of an envelope.” 

“Ah,” said the other, “I must take issue with you. Your prepara¬ 
tion really stretched over the years of your whole life.” 

Was it not so with Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg? Sometimes 
the moments consumed in recording experiences and conclusions are 
not as many as the years spent in preparation. 

The writer should plan to devote regular time to his work, even if 
it is the spare cracks of time and the little pieces one spends commuting 
to and from the business office. Remember the story of the doctor who 
succeeded in writing a large and important volume by persistently 
making use of every moment he waited for his patients to answer the 
door bell. 

Where shall I write? In the place I feel most at home, or where 
I must. If absolutely necessary, ordinary obstacles can be surmounted. 
The obstacles may test the mettle of the worker after all. 

How shall I write? By realizing the importance of my task, by 
seeing before me the vast audience I address through the written word, 
or the pictured act, and, in fact, never daring to do other than my 
best. Let my head be clear, my hand steady, and my subject worthy 
and familiar, then I will feel the joy of life, the satisfaction of service, 
and shall not fail to receive the rewards I have merited. 


Chapter VII 



WHERE TO SELL MANUSCRIPTS 


Photoplays 

American Film Co., Inc., Santa Bar¬ 
bara, Cal. 

Artcraft Pictures Corp. See Famous 
Players-Lasky Corp. 

Blue Bird Features. See Universal 
Film Mfg. Co. 

Brunton Studio, 5311 Melrose Ave., 
Los Angeles, Cal. 

Christie Film Co., Inc., Sunset Blvd. 
and Gower Sts., Los Angeles, Cal. 

Diando Motion Picture Co., Glendale, 
Los Angeles, Cal. 

Dorothy Gish Co., Sunset Studio, 4520 
Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, Cal. 

Douglas Fairbanks Co., Sunset & Ar- 
gyle, Los Angeles, Cal. 

Drew-Paramount Pictures, 220 W. 42nd 
St., New York. 

Ebony Film Corp., 608 S. Dearborn St., 
Chicago. 

Essanay Film Mfg. Co., 1333 Argyle 
St., Chicago. 

Famous Players-Lasky Corp., 485 
Fifth Ave., New York. 

Fox Film Corp., 130 W. 46th St., New 
York. 

Frohman Amusement Corp., Times 

Bldg., New York. 

Gaumont Co., Flushing, N. Y. 

Goldwyn Pictures Corp., 16 W. 42nd 
St., New York. 

Haworth Pictures Corp., Heilman 
Bldg., Los Angeles, Cal. 

International Film Service, 729 Sev¬ 
enth Ave., New York. 

Ivan Film Prod., Inc., 126 W. 46th St., 
New York. 

Frank A. Keeney Pictures Corp., 1493 
Broadway, New York. 

Keystone Film Co., 1712 Alessandro 
St., Los Angeles, Cal. 

L-Ko Motion Picture Co., 6100 Sunset 
Blvd., Los Angeles, Cal. 

Mabel Condon Exchange, 6035 Holly¬ 
wood Blvd., Los Angeles, Cal. 

Mack Sennett Comedies, Los Angeles, 
Cal. 

Mary Pickford Productions, Holly¬ 
wood, Cal. 

National Film Corp., Englewood, Cal. 

Paramount Pictures Corp. See Fam¬ 
ous Players-Lasky Corp. 

Pathe Exchange, 25 W. 45th St., New 
York. 

Renowned Pictures Corp., 1600 Broad¬ 
way, New York. 

Rolin Film Co., Los Angeles, Cal. 

Select Pictures, Inc., 729 Seventh Ave., 
New York. 

Selig Polyscope Co., 58 E. Washington 
St., Chicago. 

Southern California Producing Co., 
6101 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, 

, Cal. 

Sunshine Comedies, Inc., Western & 
Longpre Aves., Los Angeles, Cal. 

Norma Talmage Film Corp., 1493 
Broadway, New York. 

Universal Film Mfg. Co., 1600 Broad¬ 
way, New York. 

Vitagraph Co. of America, E. 15th St. 
& Locust Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Vogue Film Co., Gower & Santa Mon¬ 
ica Sts., Los Angeles, Cal. 


World Film Corp., 130 W. 46th St., 
New York, N. Y. 

Clara Kimball Young Co., Aeolian Hall, 
New York. 

Standard Magazines 

Adventure, Spring and Macdougal 
streets, New York. 

Ainslee’s Magazine, 79 Seventh Ave., 
New York. 

All-Story Weekly, 8 West 40th St., 
New York. 

American Ambition, 422 Land Title 
Bldg., Phila., Pa. 

American Magazine, 381 Fourth Ave., 
New York. 

Argonaut, 406 Sutter St., San Francis- 
co Cctl 

Argosy, 8 West 40th St., New York. 

Atlantic Monthly, 3 Park St., Boston, 
Mass. 

Bellman, 118 S. 15th St., Minneapolis, 
Minn. 

Black Cat, Salem, Mass. 

Blue Book, North American Bldg., 
Chicago. 

Bookman, The, 443 Fourth Ave., New 
York. 

Breezy Stories, 112 East 19th St., 
New York. 

Business Philosopher, Area, Ill. 

Canadian Courier, 181 Simcoe St., Tor¬ 
onto. 

Canadian Magazine, Toronto. 

Cartoons, 6 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago. 

Century Magazine, 353 Fourth Ave., 
New York. 

Collier’s Weekly, 416 West 13th St., 
New York. 

Colonade, Box 44, University Heights, 
N. Y. 

Cosmopolitan, 119 West 140th St., New 
York. 

Current History, Times Bldg., New 
York. 

Detective Story Magazine, 79 Seventh 
Ave., New York. 

Dial, The, 623 Sherman St., Chicago. 

Everybody’s Magazine, Spring and 
Macdougal Streets, New York. 

Film Fun, 225 Fifth Ave., New York. 

Forbes Magazine, 120 Broadway, New 
York. 

Forum, 286 Fifth Ave., New York. 

Green Book, North American Bldg., 
Chicago 

Harper’s Magazine, Franklin Square, 
New York. 

Hearst’s Magazine, 119 West 40th St., 
New York. 

Holland’s Magazine, Dallas, Tex. 

Illustrated World, Drexel Ave. and 
58th St., Chicago. 

Independent, The, 119 West 40th St., 
New York. 

Judge, 225 Fifth Ave., New York. 

Leslie’s Weekly, 225 Fifth Ave., New 
York. 

Life, 17 West 31st St., New York. 

Literary Digest, The, 354 Fourth Ave., 
New York. 

Live Stories, 35 West 39th St., New 
York. 

McClure’s Magazine, Fourth Ave. and 
20th St., New York. 


220 


How to Be a Successful Writer 


MacLean’s Magazine, Toronto. 

Metropolitan Magazine, 432 Fourth 
Ave., New York. 

Modern Methods, Detroit, Mich. 

Munsey’s Magazine, 8 West 40th St., 
New York. 

National Magazine, 952 Dorchester 
Ave., Boston, Mass. 

New Republic, 421 West 21st St., New 
York. 

Outlook, 381 Fourth Ave., New York. 

Parisienne, 461 Eighth Ave., New York. 

Pearson’s Magazine, 34 Union Square, 
New York. 

People’s Popular Monthly, Des Moines, 
la. 

Physical Culture, Flatiron Bldg., New 
York. 

Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, 543 Cass 
St., Chicago. 

Popular Magazine, 79 Seventh Ave., 
New York. 

Popular Mechanics Magazine, 6 N. 
Michigan Ave., Chicago. 

Popular Science Monthly, 225 West 
39th St., New York. 

Puck, 210 Fifth Ave., New York. 

Railroad Man’s Magazine, 8 West 40th 
St., New York. 

Recreation, 2 West 33d St., New York. 

Red Book, North American Bldg., 
Chicago. 

Review of Reviews, 30 Irving Place, 
New York. 

Saturday Evening Post, Independence 
Square, Phila., Pa. 

Saucy Stories, 461 Eighth Ave., New 
York. 

Scribner’s Magazine, Fifth Ave., at 
48th St., New York. 

Short Stories, Garden City, L. I., N. Y. 

Smart Set, 461 Eighth Ave., New York. 

Smith’s Magazine, 79 Seventh Ave., 
New York. 

Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th St., New 
York. 

Sunset Magazine, San Francisco, Cal. 

System, Madison St. and Wabash Ave., 
Ch icag*o 

10 Story Book, 537 S. Dearborn St., 
Chicago. 

Top-Notch Magazine, 79 Seventh Ave., 
New York. 

Touchstone Magazine, 118 30th St., 
New York. 

Town Topics, 2 West 45th St., New 
York. 

Travel, 31 East 17th St., New York. 

Vanity Fair, 449 Fourth Ave., New 
York. 

World's Work, Garden City, L. I., N. Y. 

Young’s Magazine, 112 East 19th St., 
New York. 

Youth’s Companion, 881 Common¬ 
wealth Ave., Boston, Mass. 
Women's Publications 

American Cookery, 372 Boylston St., 
Boston, Mass. 

American Motherhood, Cooperstown, 
N. Y. 

Business Woman’s Magazine, New¬ 
burgh, N. Y. 

Canadian Home Journal, 71 Richmond 
St., West, Toronto. 


Delineator, Spring and Macdougal 
Streets, New York. 

Designer, 12 Vandam St., New York. 

Every woman’s World, 62 Temperance 
St., Toronto. 

Family, Simmons Publishing Co., 
Springfield, O. 

Farmer’s Wife, St. Paul, Minn. 

Gentlewoman, 649 West 43d St., New 
York. 

Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th St., 
New York. 

Harper’s Bazar, 119 West 40th St., 
New York. 

Home Friend Magazine, Kansas City, 
Mo. . 

Home Life, 141 West Ohio St., Chicago. 

Household Guest, 550 North La Salle 
St., Chicago. 

Ladies’ Home Journal, Independence 
Square, Phila., Pa. 

McCall’s Magazine, 236 West 37th St., 
New York. 

Modern Priscilla, Boston, Mass. 

Mother’s Magazine, Elgin, Ill. 

Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th St., 
New York. 

Spare Moments, Allentown, Pa. 

Southern Woman’s Magazine, Nash- 
, ville, Tenn. 

Today’s Housewife, 461 Fourth Ave., 
New York. 

Vogue, 443 Fourth Ave., New York. 

Woman’s Home Companion, 381 Fourth 
Ave., New York. 

Woman’s Magazine, 636 Broadway, 
New York. 

Woman’s World, 107 South Clinton St., 
Chicago, Ill. 

Juvenile Publications 

American Boy, The, Detroit, Mich. 

Beacon, 25 Beacon St., Boston, Mass. 

Boys’ Life, 200 Fifth Ave., New York. 

Boys’ Magazine, Smethport, Pa. 

Boys’ World, Elgin, Ill. 

Child’s Gem, 161 Eighth Ave., Nash¬ 
ville, Tenn. 

Dew Drops, Elgin, Ill. 

Every Child’s Magazine, Omaha, Nebr. 

Fame and Fortune, 166 West 23d St., 
New York. 

Forward, Witherspoon Bldg., Phila., 
Pa. 

Girl’s Companion, Elgin, Ill. 

Girl’s World, 1701 Chestnut St., Phila., 
Pa. 

John Martin’s Book, Garden City, L. I., 
N. Y. 

Little Folks, Salem, Mass. 

Round Table, 2712 Pine St., St. Louis, 
Mo. 

St. Nicholas Magazine, 353 Fourth 
Ave., New York. 

What To Do, Elgin, Ill. 

The Young Churchman, 484 Milwau¬ 
kee St., Milwaukee, Wis. 

Young Crusader, 1730 Chicago Ave., 
Evanston, Ill. 

Young Folks, 1716 Arch St., Phila, Pa. 

Youth’s World, 1701 Chestnut St., 
Phila., Pa. 


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PreservationTechnologies 


Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 


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